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DOWN  THE  BAYOU,  THE  CAP 
TAIN'S  STORY,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS.  BY  MARY  ASHLEY 
TOWNSEND 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
MDCCCXCVI 


Copyright,  1881,  by  MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND. 
Copyright,  1895,  by  MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND. 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


PS 


1882. 


TO 

OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 


To  thee,  whose  home  is  in  a  nations  heart, 
Thit  book  of  songs  that  I  have  dared  to  sing, 
With  tender  love  and  reverence  I  bring, 
As  one  a  flower  might  proffer  and  depart 

Whence  Praise,  Affection,  Honor,  Truth,  and  Art 
Have  proudly  lavished  many  a  greater  thing, 
Due  him  who  acts,  with  noble  rendering, 
In  life's  great  drama,  his  allotted  part. 

Would  what  I  bring  were  many  times  more  rare. 
More  worthy  of  thy  genius  and  thy  fame, 
Thy  sweet,  brave  nature — thy  attempered  wit ; 

The  clustering  honors  it  is  thine  to  wear, 
And  worthier  far  of  thy  illustrious  name, 
Which  doth  illume  the  page  whereon  'tis  writ  ! 


3309 


*' 


*~&~r 


/ 


^^  >* 

<y *^LG^.     ^i^o^. 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

DOWN  THE  BAYOU 9 

"  LE   ROI   EST    MORT  " 20 

ST.  JULIENNE 29 

ASHMED,  THE  RHYMER 31 

RECUERPO 33 

THE  SWIMMER 38 

UPON  THE  PEAKS 38 

LOST  AND  FOUND 41 

L' AMOUR 45 

CARNIVAL  SONG 47 

LOUISIANA  TO  MASSACHUSETTS 50 

THEY  SAY 52 

WILLIAM  BARRON'S  BALCONY 54 

THE  SUMMER 60 

FLORA  MCDONALD 62 

MY  LADY 65 

ASUNDER 68 

WHEN 70 

SONG 72 

GUY'S  GOLD 7-J 

xi 


m  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

WHAT  I  SAW  IN  MY  SLEEP 76 

IN  DUBIO 78 

CREED 83 

To  THE  MEXICAN  EXILES 85 

YOUR  LETTER 87 

AT  THE  CHANDELEUR  ISLANDS 80 

HE  AND  SHE 91 

DAME  AILSIE 03 

BY  THE  BIRD-CAGE 98 

OLGA 103 

OLD  AGE  TO  TIME 106 

RIME 108 

THE  EQUINOX 109 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.     ...         110 

THE  BATHER 133 

GOLD 136 

FROM  YEAR  TO  YEAR 143 

THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  PRAYER 146 

LIFE'S  MUTATIONS 148 

AT  THE  WHEEL 150 

RILMA'S  FAREWELL 153 

How  LONG  ? 1 55 

IN  DREAMS 157 

IT  RAINS 159 

UP  THE  HILL 161 

ASHES  OF  ROSES 166 

NOT 168 

SURRENDERED 170 

WAYNK 171 

A  WOMAN'S  WISH 174 


CONTENTS.  xni 

PAGE 

IIic  JACET 176 

Two 179 

To  BE 181 

"  ONE  FOR  YOU,  AND  ONE  FOR  ME  " 183 

FAREWELL  TO  MEXICO 185 

ELEANOR 187 

MY  SOUL 190 

THE  CHRISTENING 193 

MYSTERY 194 

THE  WIND 195 

DON'T  You  REMEMBER  ? 196 

AXGELE 201 

THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL 208 

NEXT  YEAR 215 

EMBRYO 217 

THE  PRINTING- PRESS    ,  218 


DOWN   THE   BAYOU. 


T  T  7E  drifted  down  the  long  lagoon, 

V  V     My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
Far  out  of  sight  of  all  the  town, 
The  old  Cathedral  sinking  down, 
With  spire  and  cross,  from  view  below 
The  borders  of  St.  John's  bayou, 
As  toward  the  ancient  Spanish  Fort, 
With  steady  prow  and  helm  a-port, 
We  drifted  down,  my  Love  and  I, 
Beneath  an  azure  April  sk}r, 
My  Love  and  I,  my  Love  and  I, 
Just  at  the  hour  of  noon. 

We  drifted  down,  and  drifted  down, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
Beyond  the  Creole  part  of  town, 
Its  red-tiled  roofs,  its  stucco  walls, 
Its  belfries,  with  their  sweet  bell-calls ; 
The  Bishop's  Palace,  which  enshrines 
Such  memories  of  the  Ursulines  ; 
Past  balconies  where  maidens  dreamed 
Behind  the  shelter  of  cool  vines  ; 


10  DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

Past  open  doors  where  parrots  screamed  ; 

Past  courts  where  mingled  shade  and  glare 

Fell  through  pomegranate  boughs,  to  where 

The  turbaned  negress,  drowsy  grown, 

Sat  nodding  in  her  ample  chair ; 

Beyond  the  joyance  and  the  stress, 

Beyond  the  greater  and  the  less, 

Beyond  the  tiresome  noonday  town, 

The  parish  prison's  cupolas, 

The  bridges,  with  their  creaking  draws, 

And  many  a  convent's  frown,  — 

We  drifted  on,  my  Love  and  I, 

Beneath  the  semi-tropic  sk}r, 

While  from  the  clock-towers  in  the  town 

Spake  the  meridian  bells  that  said,  — 

'T  was  morn  —  't  is  noon  — 

Time  flies  —  and  soon 

Night  follows  noon. 

Prepare !     Beware ! 

Take  care  !     Take  care ! 

For  soon  —  so  soon  — 

Night  follows  noon,  — 

Dark  night  the  noon,  — 

Noon  !  noon  !  noon !  noon ! 

To  right,  to  left,  the  tiller  turned, 
In  all  its  gaud,  our  painted  prow. 
Bend  after  bend  our  light  keel  spurned, 
For  sinuously  the  bayou's  low 
Dark  waters  'neath  the  sunshine  burned, 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU.  11 

There,  in  that  smiling  southern  noon, 

As  if  some  giant  serpent,  wound 

Along  the  lush  and  mellow  ground 

To  mark  the  path  we  chose  to  go ; 

When,  in  sweet  hours  remembered  now, 

The  long  lagoon  we  drifted  down  ; 

My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 

Far  out  of  reach  of  all  the  town, 

Beyond  the  Ridge  of  Metairie, 

And  all  its  marble  villages 

Thronged  with  their  hosts  of  Deaf  and  Dumb, 

Who,  to  the  feet  of  Death  have  come 

And  laid  their  earthly  burdens  down ! 

We  drifted  slow,  we  drifted  fast, 

Bulrush  and  reed  and  blossom  past, 

My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I. 

As  the  chameleon  pillages 

Its  tint  from  turf,  or  leaf,  or  stone, 

Or  flower  it  haps  to  rest  upon, 

So  did  our  hearts,  that  jo}'ous  da}r, 

From  every  beauty  in  our  way 

Some  new  fresh  tinge  of  beauty  take, 

Some  added  gladness  make  our  own 

From  things  familiar  yet  unknown. 

With  scarce  the  lifting  of  an  oar, 
We  lightly  swept  from  shore  to  shore,  — 
The  hither  and  the  thither  shore, 
With  scarce  the  lifting  of  an  oar,  — 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

While  far  beyond,  in  distance  wrapped, 
The  city's  lines  lay  faintly  mapped,  — 
Its  antique  courts,  its  levee's  throngs, 
Its  rattling  floats,  its  boatmen's  songs, 
Its  lowly  and  its  lofty  roofs, 
Its  tramp  of  men,  its  beat  of  hoofs, 
Its  scenes  of  peace,  its  brief  alarms, 
Its  narrow  streets,  its  old  Place  cCArmes, 
Whose  tragic  soil  of  long  ago 
Now  sees  the  modern  roses  blow : 
All  these  in  one  vast  cloud  were  wound, 
Of  blurred  and  fainting  sight  and  sound, 
As  on  we  swept,  my  Love  and  I, 
Beneath  the  April  sky  together, 
In  all  the  bloomy  April  weather,  — 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
In  all  the  blue  and  amber  weather. 

We  passed  the  marsh  where  pewits  sung, 
M}T  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I ; 
We  passed  the  reeds  and  brakes  among, 
Beneath  the  smilax  vines  we  swung ; 
We  grasped  at  lilies  whitely  drooping 
Mid  the  rank  growth  of  grass  and  sedge, 
Or  bending  toward  the  water's  edge, 
As  for  their  own  reflection  stooping. 
Then  talked  we  of  the  legend  old, 
Wherein  Narcissus'  fate  is  told ; 
And  turned  from  that  to  grander  story 
Of  heroed  past  or  modern  glory, 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU.  13 

Till  the  quaint  town  of  New  Orleans, 
Its  Spanish  and  its  French  demesnes, 
Like  some  vague  mirage  of  the  mind, 
In  Memory's  cloudlands  lay  defined  ; 
And  back  and  backward  seemed  to  creep 
Commerce,  with  all  her  tangled  tongues, 
Till  Silence  smote  her  lust}-  lungs, 
And  Distance  lulled  Discord  to  sleep. 


We  drifted  down,  and  drifted  down, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I. 
The  wild  bee  sought  the  shadowed  flower, 
Yet  wet  with  morning's  dewy  dower, 
While  here  and  there  across  the  stream 
A  daring  vine  its  frail  bridge  builded, 
As  fair,  as  fragile  as  some  dream 
Which  Hope  with  hollow  hand  hath  gilded. 
Now  here,  now  there,  some  fisher's  boat, 
By  trudging  fisher  towed,  would  float 
Toward  the  town  bej'ond  our  eyes  ; 
The  drowsy  steersman  in  the  sun, 
Chanting  meanwhile,  in  drowsy  tone,  — 
Under  the  smiling  April  skies, 
To  which  the  earth  smiled  back  replies,  — 
Beside  his  helm  some  barcarole, 
Or,  in  the  common  patois  known 
To  such  as  he  before  his  day, 
Sang  out  some  gay  chanson  creole, 
And  held  his  bark  upon  its  way. 


14  DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

Slowly  along  the  old  shell  road 
Some  aged  negro,  'neath  his  load 
Of  gathered  moss  and  latanier 
Went  shuffling  on  his  homeward  way ; 
While  purple,  cool,  beneath  the  blue 
Of  that  hot  noontide,  bravely  smiled, 
With  bright  and  iridescent  hue, 
Whole  acres  of  the  blue-flag  flower, 
The  breathy  Iris,  sweet  and  wild, 
That  floral  savage  unsubdued, 
The  gypsy  April's  gypsy  child. 

Now  from  some  point  of  weed}'  shore 
An  Indian  woman  darts  before 
The  light  bow  of  our  idle  boat, 
In  which,  like  figures  in  a  dream, 
M}*  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
Adown  the  sluggish  ba}"ou  float ; 
While  she,  in  whose  still  face  we  see 
Traits  of  a  chieftain  ancestry, 
Paddles  her  pirogue  clown  the  stream 
Swiftly,  and  with  the  flexile  grace 
Of  some  dusk  Dian  in  the  chase. 

As  nears  our  boat  the  tangled  shore, 
Where  the  wild  mango  weaves  its  boughs, 
And  early  willows  stoop  their  hair 
To  meet  the  sullen  ba}X)u's  kiss  ; 
Where  the  luxuriant  "  creeper"  throws 
Its  eager  clasp  round  rough  and  fair 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU.  15 

To  climb  toward  the  coming  June ; 
Where  the  sly  serpent's  sudden  hiss 
Startles  sometimes  the  drowsy  noon,  — 
There  the  rude  hut,  banana-thatched, 
Stands  with  its  ever  open  door ; 
Its  yellow  gourd  hung  up  beside 
The  crippled  crone  who,  half  asleep, 
In  garments  most  grotesquely  patched, 
Grim  watch  and  ward  pretends  to  keep 
Where  there  is  naught  to  be  denied. 


The  castled  crayfish  shows  his  tower, 
Mud-built,  half  hidden  in  the  weeds, 
Above  his  deftly  sunken  well ; 
And  there  the  truant,  in  his  hour 
Of  idle  aims  and  wanton  needs, 
Will  come  with  bit  of  scarlet  bait, 
And,  loitering  long,  will  patient  wait 
To  drag  the  hermit  from  his  cell. 
Beside  the  bank  we  smile  to  hear 
The  breezy  gossip  of  the  plain 
Come  lightly  to  the  listening  ear ; 
The  rushes  whisper  to  the  cane, 
The  cane  the  spiked  palmetto  nears, 
The  grasses  rustle  as  the}'  tell, 
Then  runs  the  whisper  back  again, 
As  if  the  olden  secret  grew, 
As  secrets  will,  both  old  and  new, 
That  "  Midas,  he  hath  asses'  cars." 


16  DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

The  white  clouds  drifted  overhead, 
As  on  we  passed,  my  Love  and  I ; 
The}*  sailed  the  sky  like  phantom  ships 
With  phantom  freight,  —  their  port  a  dream, 
Their  course  a  careless  idler's  theme. 
Across  the  lush  and  lonesome  marsh 
The  heron's  cry  rose  shrill  and  harsh ; 
O'er  distant  plains  the  cattle  wound 
For  noondaj-  rest  on  shadowed  ground ; 
And  now  we  talked,  and  now  we  read 
The  day-dream  of  some  dreamer  dead  ; 
Or,  trailing  there  our  finger-tips 
In  lazy  tides  our  frail  bark  under, 
Of  heroes  spoke  with  awe  and  wonder, 
Or  poets  named  of  some  far  daj*, 
Who  had  bequeathed  unto  our  time, 
In  pages  quaint  of  dolorous  rl^me, 
A  heritage  of  j-outhful  loves, 
Which  round  their  lives  had  seemed  to  play 
As  summer  lightning  pla3"s  round  warm 
Night-skies  to  which  it  brings  no  harm. 
Then  flocks  of  golden  butterflies 
Fluttered  our  painted  prow  before, 
Seeming  to  draw  us  shore  from  shore. 
The  Love  Queen's  ribbon-guided  doves, 
Which,  so  the  mythic  legend  proves, 
Her  chariot  drew  o'er  roads  of  stars 
Whereon  her  wheels  haATe  left  no  scars, 
Were  not  more  gorgeous  in  their  dyes 
Than  our  unharnessed  butterflies ; 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU.  17 

As  yellow  as  if  all  their  wings 
Were  made  of  golden  wedding-rings, 
And  silent  as  if  each  were  made 
Of  sweet  things  lovers  leave  unsaid. 

Still  darkly  winding  on  before, 
For  half  a  dozen  miles  or  more, 
Past  leagues  and  leagues  of  lilied  marsh, 
The  murky  bayou  swerved  and  slid, 
Was  lost,  and  found  itself  again, 
And  yet  again  was  quickly  hid 
Among  the  grasses  of  the  plain. 
As  gazed  we  o'er  the  sedgy  swerves, 
The  wild  and  weedy  water  curves, 
Towards  sheets  of  shining  canvas  spread 
High  o'er  the  lilies  blue  and  red, 
So  low  the  shores  on  either  hand, 
The  sloops  seemed  sailing  on  the  land. 

Now  here,  now  there,  among  the  sedge, 

As  drifted  on  my  Love  and  I, 

Were  groups  of  idling  negro  girls, 

Half  hid  behind  the  swaying  hedge 

Of  wild  rice  nodding  in  the  breeze. 

Barefooted  by  the  ba}"ou's  edge, 

Just  where  the  water  swells  and  swirls, 

They  watched  the  passing  of  our  boat. 

Some  stood  like  caryatides 

With  arms  upraised  to  burdened  heads  ; 

Some,  idly  grouped  among  the  weeds, 


18  DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

With  arras  about  their  naked  knees, 
Or  full  length  on  the  grasses  cast, 
Grew  into  pictures  as  we  passed. 
Our  aimless  course  they  idly  noted, 
Then  out  across  the  lowlands  floated 
Rude  snatches  of  plantation  songs, 
In  that  sweet  cadence  which  belongs 
To  their  full-lipped,  full-lunged  race. 
We  heard  the  rustle  of  the  grass 
They  parted  wide  to  see  us  pass  ; 
Our  boat  so  neared  their  resting-place, 
We  heard  their  murmurs  of  surprise, 
And  glanced  into  their  shining  eyes  ; 
Then  caught  the  rich,  mellifluous  strain 
That  fell  and  rose,  and  fell  again  ; 
And  listened,  listened,  till  the  last 
Clear  note  was  mingled  with  the  past. 

We  drifted  on,  and  drifted  on, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I. 
All  3'outh  seemed  like  an  April  land, 
All  life  seemed  like  a  morning  sky. 
Like  the  white  fervor  of  a  star 
That  burns  in  twilight  skies  afar, 
Between  the  azure  of  the  day, 
And  gates  that  shut  the  night  awa}r ; 
Bright  as  an  Ophir  jewel's  gleam 
On  some  Eg3'ptian's  swarthy  hand, 
About  my  heart  one  radiant  dream 
Shone  with  a  glow  intense,  supreme, 


DOWN  TIIE  BAYOU.  19 

Yet  vague,  withal,  like  some  sweet  sky 
We  trust  for  sunshine,  nor  know  why. 
The  reed  birds  chippered  in  the  reeds, 
As  drifted  on  my  Love  and  I ; 
The  sleep}'  saurian  by  the  bank 
Slid  from  his  sunny  log,  and  sank 
Beneath  the  dank,  luxuriant  weeds 
That  lay  upon  the  bayou's  breast, 
Like  vernal  argosies  at  rest. 

Like  some  blind  Homer  of  the  wood,  — 

A  king  in  beggared  solitude,  — 

Upon  the  wide,  palmettoed  plain, 

A  giant  cypress  here  and  there 

Stood  in  impoverished  despair ; 

With  leafless  crown,  with  outstretched  limbs, 

With  mien  of  woe,  with  voiceless  hymns, 

With  mossy  raiment,  tattered,  gray, 

Waiting  in  dumb  and  sightless  pain, 

A  model  posing  for  Dore. 

Aloft,  on  horizontal  wing, 

We  saw  the  buzzard  rock  and  swing ; 

That  sturdy  sailor  of  the  air, 

Whose  agile  pinions  have  a  grace 

That  prouder  plumes  might  proudly  wear, 

And  claim  it  for  a  kinglier  race. 

From  distant  oak-groves,  sweet  send  strong, 
The  voicy  mocking-bird  gave  song,  — 


20  DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

That  plagiarist  whose  note  is  known 
As  every  bird's,  yet  all  his  own. 
As  shuttles  of  the  Persian  looms 
Catch  all  of  Nature's  subtlest  blooms, 
Alike  her  bounty  and  her  dole 
To  weave  in  one  bewildering  whole, 
So  has  this  subtile  singer  caught 
All  sweetest  songs,  and  deftlj*  wrought 
Them  into  one  entrancing  score 
From  his  rejoicing  heart  to  pour. 

Remembering  that'  song,  that  sky, 

"  M}'  Love,"  I  say,  "  my  Love  and  I "  — 

"  My  Summer  Love"  — yet  know  not  why. 

We  had  been  friends,  we  still  were  friends  ; 

Where  love  begins  and'  friendship  ends, 

To  both  was  like  some  new  strange  shore 

Which  hesitating  feet  explore. 

There  had  we  met,  surprised  to  meet 

And  glad  to  find  surprise  so  sweet ; 

But  not  a  word,  nor  sigh,  nor  token, 

Nor  tender  word  unconscious  spoken, 

Nor  lingering  clasp,  nor  sudden  kiss, 

Had  shown  Love  born  of  Friendship's  broken, 

Golden,  glorious  chrysalis. 

Each  well  content  with  each  to  dream, 
We  drifted  down  that  silent  stream, 
Searching  the  book  of  Nature  fair, 
To  find  each  other's  picture  there, 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU.  21 

Lifting  our  eyes 

To  name  the  skies 
Prophets  of  cloudless  destinies, 
As  down  and  down  the  long  lagoon 
We  swept  that  semi-tropic  noon, 
Eaclj  one  as  sure  love  lay  below 
The  careless  thoughts  our  lips  might  breathe, 
Or  lighter  laughter  might  unfold, 
As  doth  the  earnest  alchemist  know 
Beneath  his  trusted  crucibles  glow 
Fires  to  transmute  his  dross  to  gold. 


The  wind  was  blowing  from  the  south 
When  we  had  reached  the  bayou's  mouth, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I. 
It  laden  came  with  rare  perfumes,  — 
With  spice  of  bays,  and  orange  blooms, 
And  mossy  odors  from  the  glooms 
Of  cypress  swamps.     Now  and  again, 
Upon  the  fair  Lake  Pontchartrain, 
White  sails  went  nodding  to  the  main ; 
And  round  about  the  painted  hulls 
Darted  the  sailing,  swooping  gulls, 
Wailing  and  shrieking,  as  they  flew 
Unrestingly  'twixt  blue  and  blue, 
Like  ghosts  of  drowned  mariners 
Rising  from  deep  sea  sepulchres, 
To  warn,  with  weird  and  woful  lips, 
Who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships. 


22  DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

We  moored  our  boat  beside  the  moat 
Beneath  the  old  Fort's  crumbling  wall. 
No  sudden  drum  gave  warning  sharp, 
No  martial  order  manned  the  Fort, 
No  watchful  step  the  bastion  smote, 
No  challenge  from  a  sentry's  throat 
Sent  down  to  us  its  questioning  call. 
No  gleam  of  bayonet  met  the  e}"e, 
No  banner  broadened  'gainst  the  sky, 
No  clash  of  grounded  arms  was  heard, 
No  ringing  cheer,  no  murmured  word, 
No  feet  of  armies  marching  b}T. 
From  moat  and  scarp  and  counterscarp, 
From  parapet  to  sally-port, 
All  lay  untenanted  and  mute. 
One  grim,  invisible  sentinel, 
Silence,  gave  to  us  sad  salute, 
Then  died,  as  there  our  footsteps  fell. 


We  climbed  the  ramparts,  hand  in  hand, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I. 
There  had  the  dumb,  industrious  moss 
Woven  its  tapestries  across 
The  ancient  brickwork,  with  a  touch 
Like  Love,  which,  loving,  giveth  much. 
There,  undisturbed,  the  lichen's  slow, 
Gra}*  finger  all  the  walls  along 
Had  writ,  in  untranslated  song, 
Its  history  of  the  fair,  low  land, 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU.  23 

Its  courtly  dames,  its  maidens  fair, 
Its  men,  brave,  proud,  and  debonair, 
Its  romance  and  its  chivalry, 
As  known  a  hundred  years  ago. 


Softly  the  fragrant  southern  breeze 

From  o'er  the  Mexic  Gulf  blew  on, 

Stiwing  the  blossomed  orange-trees, 

And  leafless  groves  of  the  pecan. 

O'er  crumbling  paths  we  laughing  went, 

My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 

Or  o'er  the  hidden  trenches  bent, 

And  lingered  with  a  vague  content 

On  bastion  and  on  battlement. 

There  were  the  cannon,  blear  and  black, 

Directed  toward  no  foeman's  track  ; 

Swart  battle's  puny  infants  swung 

In  the  rude  cradle  of  a  time 

When  dreams  were  dwarfs,  invention  young, 

And  science,  with  its  white,  sublime, 

Eternal  face,  yet  scarcely  free 

From  swaddles  of  its  infancy. 

With  deep  throats  void  of  even  a  threat, 

Prone  on  the  grass-grown  parapet 

In  mute  impotency  the}'  lay. 

Up  to  the  rigid  mouth  of  one 

A  clambering  rose  its  way  had  spun : 

Freighting  the  air  with  sweet  increase 

Of  fragrance,  lavished  near  and  far, 


24  DOWN  THE  BAYOU. 

It  clung  there,  like  a  kiss  of  Peace 

On  the  barbaric  lips  of  War. 

With  reverent  hands  we  touched  the  strange, 

Mute  relics,  that  so  sternly  spake 

Of  strides  that  make  the  nations  quake 

With  awe  before  the  march  of  change. 

To  what  might  be,  from  what  had  been, 

Our  thoughts  o'er  luminous  courses  swept, 

Till  every  boundary  they  o'erleapt       . 

That  marks  the  untried  and  unseen. 

Then  Doubt  from  her  chill  cloisters  crept, 

Surrendering  unto  Progress  there 

The  rusting  keys  of  all  the  realms 

Dominioned  by  the  dwarf,  Despair ; 

And,  wondering,  conquered,  awed,  and  dumb, 

She  gazed  toward  the  Yet  to  Come. 

Like  one  some  gladness  overwhelms, 
Till,  in  the  joy  with  which  'tis  rife 
Is  drowned  all  dread  of  chancing  grief, 
I  laughed,  I  dreamed,  that  sunny  day, 
And  bound  in  one  full  fragrant  sheaf 
The  goldenest  harvests  of  my  life. 

And  now,  whene'er  an  April  sky 
Bends  o'er  me  like  some  vast  blue  bell ; 
When  piping  birds  are  in  the  reeds, 
And  earth  is  fed  on  last  j'ear's  seeds ; 
When  newly  is  the  live-oak's  tent 
With  tender  green  and  gray  besprent ; 


DOWN  THE  BAYOU.  25 

When  wailing  gulls  are  on  the  lake, 
And  woods  are  fair  for  April's  sake  ; 
When  grassy  plains  their  secrets  tell, 
And  lilies  with  white  wonder  look 
At  other  lilies  by  the  brook  ; 
When  thrills  the  wild  rice  in  the  wind, 
And  cries  the  heron  shrill  and  harsh 
Along  the  lush  and  lonely  marsh  ; 
When  in  the  grove  the  mocker  sings, 
And  earth  seems  full  of  new-made  things, 
And  Nature  to  all  youth  is  kind,  — 
Once  more,  as  in  a  vision,  seem 
To  rise  before  me  lake  and  stream  ; 
Once  more  a  semi-tropic  noon, 
A  boat  upon  a  long  lagoon  ; 
Two  figures  there,  as  in  a  dream, 
Come,  strangely  dear  and  strangely  nigh, 
To  touch  me,  and  to  pass  me  by. 
And,  as  they  pass,  once  more  I  seem 
To  see,  beneath  the  April  sky, 
In  all  the  blue  and  silver  weather, 
M3r  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
Drift  down  the  long  lagoon  together ! 


"LE  ROI  EST  MORT." 


L1 


IGHT  all  the  lamps 

In  the  temples  of  the  skies  ; 
Keep  them  trimmed  and  burning  ; 
In  extremis  lies 
The  Year. 
Watch  by  the  corpse,  Arcturus,  when  he  dies  ! 

Bid  them  all  hither, 
The  congregations  of  stars, 
Their  high-priests  and  sages, 

Their  crowned  kings  and  czars. 

The  Year 
Is  dead  ;  Uranus,  vigil  keep,  and  Mars  ! 

He  has  gone  hence 
From  the  palaces  of  Time  — 
Hark !  for  the  royal  sleeper 
How  the  planets  chime  ; 

While  Earth, 
Chief  mourner,  mourns  the  King  dead  in  his  prime. 


«LE  ROI  EST  MORT."  27 

Under  the  dome 
Of  midnight  cany  his  bier. 
Come,  ye  constellations, 

Gaze  on  him  shrouded  here  ; 

Each  thread 
Of  his  winding-sheet  is  a  human  smile  or  a  tear. 


Swing  o'er  his  bed 
Those  hopes  and  fruitless  schemes, 
Those  vain  evanishings, 
That  drift  of  dreams 

Called  LIFE  ! 
Alc}rone,  light  the  censer  with  thy  beams  ! 


His  cold,  cold  couch 
Lies  frosty  under  the  moon  ; 
Weep,  ye  gentle  Pleiades  ! 
Lyra's  harp  in  tune 

Shall  keep 
Time  to  your  tears  for  the  King  dead  so  soon. 


How  pale  he  lies 
In  the  shadowy  aisle  of  Time  ! 
In  the  catafalque  of  Ages 
Silentty  sublime 
He  sleeps. 
Ye  stars  !  chant  together  as  in  Creation's  prime. 


28  "LE  HOI  EST  MORT." 

Bear  forth  the  dead, 
Through  the  valleys  of  the  skies, 
To  far  sidereal  regions 

Where  lone  and  solemn  lies 

The  Past,  — 
That  vault  whose  gate  Memor}'  guards  and  glorifies. 


Farewell,  dead  King, 
Into  whose  treasury  poured 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  millions  : 
Hide  thou  thy  hoard 

Within 
The  mystic  sanctuaries  of  The  Unrestored  ! 


ST.   JULIENNE. 


A    RARE  and  radiant  girlish  face, 

Touched  with  a  tender,  saintly  grace ; 


A  brow  of  meekly  proud  reserve, 
Sign  of  a  cross  on  its  patient  curve  ; 

Her  locks  the  hue  of  rich,  dead  gold, 
About  an  innocent  forehead  scrolled ; 

Eyes  whose  opaline  lustre  beams, 
Pure  as  a  poet's  holiest  dreams ; 

Cheek  as  a  polished  sea-shell  fair, 
Sweet  lips,  half  laughter  and  half  prayer ; 

A  smile  exceeding  sweet,  and  j-et 
Pained  with  the  pang  of  some  past  regret ; 

A  soul  that  loftily  soars  and  sighs, 
Yet  leading  Self  to  the  sacrifice  ; 


30  ST.  JULIENNE. 

A  heart  as  noble  as  ever  rung 

Its  truthfulness  out  on  a  truthful  tongue  ; 

Silently  suffering,  brave  to  endure, 
Patiently  prayerful,  prayerfully  pure  ; 

Gifted,  glorious,  half  divine, 

A  heavenly  soul  in  an  earthly  shrine, 

By  women  praised,  and  adored  by  men, 
Radiant,  rare  ST.  JULIENNE  ! 


ASHMED,   THE   RHYMER. 


HE  strode  before  the  world  and  audience  claimed ; 
It  spurned  him  as  unheralded,  unfamed, 
And  sent  him  from  its  presence  bowed,  ashamed. 

He  turned,  like  one  wrong  cannot  render  meek, 
And  said,  as  burned  the  world's  blow  on  his  cheek, 
"  Yet  will  I  come  ;  men  yet  shall  hear  me  speak !  " 

Swept  the  swift  years.     They  had  forgot  each  other, 
As  friend  doth  friend  forget,  and  brother  brother ; 
The  world,  the  poet,  knew  not  one  another. 

Then  one  day,  swiftty,  like  a  rocket's  flame, 
A  poet's  thought  went  up  the  sky  of  Fame, 
And  lo !  men  clamored  for  the  poet's  name. 

Ashmed,  the  rhj-mer,  raised  his  head  and  heard. 
"Within  his  bosom  something  wistful  stirred  ; 
But  silent  stood  he,  uttering  not  a  word. 


32  ASIIMED,  THE  RHYMER. 

"Poet,"  the  world  cried,  "  from  thy  hidden  ways 
Come  forth ;  and  be  thou  crowned  with  poet's  bays ! 
Fame  waits  to  name  thee  with  impassioned  praise." 

Still  Ashmed  listened,  muttering,  "If  one  strong, 
True  voice  hath  aided  Right,  or  silenced  Wrong, 
'Tis  well ;  what  matters  it  who  sung  the  song? 

"  'T  is  after  all  the  kingdom,  not  the  king ; 
Not  seasons,  but  the  harvest  seasons  bring ; 
Not  poets,  but  the  songs  that  poets  sing. 

"And  worthless  is  the  thing  that  men  call  fame, 
And  frail  the  bar  'twixt  glory  and  'twixt  shame, 
Frail  that  ephemeral  shadow  called  '  a  name.' 

"  Greatness  may  come  to  those  who  sit  in  state, 
And  glory  unto  them  who  '  stand  and  wait.' 
Naught  comes  to  him  for  whom  all  comes  too  late  !  " 

Then  he,  like  one  of  sore  temptation  rid, 
Back  to  his  cell  with  monkish  footsteps  slid  ; 
And  from  the  whole  world  Ashmed's  face  was  hid. 


"RECUERDO!" 


««  TJECURDO!"  si,  amgof 

_  i  t  J 

Sweet  remembrance  bears  me  far, 
Where  the  Toltec  temples  crumble, 

Where  the  Aztec  ruins  are, 
Where  the  broad  banana's  banner 

Droops  above  the  bamboo  hut, 
Where  the  pluni3r  palm-tree  presses 

To  its  heart  the  milky  nut. 

"  Recuerdo!"  at  the  magic 

Music  of  your  Mexic  word, 
How  my  pulses  beat  within  me, 

How  my  heart  is  thrilled  and  stirred ! 
At  its  soft,  syllabic  murmur, 

Strange  enchantment  round  me  falls  ; 
And  again  I  see  the  moonlight 

Gleam  on  Montezuma's  halls  ; 

And  I  see  the  Indian  children 
Play  beneath  the  mango-trees, 

While  the  breath  of  orange  orchards 
Scents  the  palpitating  breeze  ; 
2*  c 


34  "RECUtRDO!" 

And  I  hear  the  clank  of  sabres, 
And  the  mustang's  eager  neigh, 

As  the  mounted  guard  dash  briskly 
Down  the  desolate  highway. 

Icy-bearded  Orizaba, 

Clothed  in  snow  and  crowned  with  cloud ; 
White  and  mute  Iztaccihuatl, 

Slumbering  in  her  frozen  shroud ; 
Cordova's  fair  coffee  forests, 

Cerro  del  Borregcfs  height, 
Many-meadowed  Metlac  lying 

In  her  vallej*  of  delight ; 

Skies  that  arch  in  matchless  splendor 

Matchless  plains  that  lie  below  ; 
Marble  hills  that  grandly  girdle 

Marble-mansioned  Mexico ; 
White-cathedralled  Guadalupe, 

Cortez's  Noche  Triste  camp,  — 
Rise,  as  rose  Aladdin's  palace, 

Bjr  the  rubbing  of  his  lamp  ; 

And  I  see  beside  the  fountains 

Dusk}*  maidens  smile  and  nod, 
"While  I  tread  the  ancient  courtways 

Which  the  Aztec  Emperor  trod. 
And  the  Caballeros  gayly 

Laugh,  and,  laughing,  gayly  ride 
Down  the  path  where  Guatimozin 

Turned  upon  his  foes  and  died. 


"  KECU£RDO  ! "  35 

All  adown  the  Rio  Ckalco, 

From  the  islanded  lagoon, 
Indian  barges  wander  slowly 

In  the  amethj'stine  noon  ; 
Brown  canoes  with  scarlet  poppies 

From  the  floating  gardens  float, 
While  some  native  minstrel  lightly 

Strikes  the  Bandalone's  note. 

Yonder,  by  the  ruined  arches, 

And  along  the  convent  walls, 
Picturesque  where  all  is  picture, 

An  unfriended  beggar  crawls  ; 
Where  Chapultepec's  grim  castle 

Its  defiant  shadow  flings, 
Halts  the  wretch  whose  veins  inherit 

Blood,  mayhap,  that  warmed  its  kings. 

"  Recuerdo!"  si,  amigo! 

Sweet  remembrance  bears  me  far, 
Where  the  Toltec  temples  perish, 

Where  the  Aztec's  idols  are. 
"  Recuerdo  !  "  at  that  whisper 

What  glad  echoes  are  recaught, 
What  mnemonic  worlds  are  moulded 

From  the  nebulae  of  thought ! 


THE  SWIMMER. 


OLDEN-BEARDED  and  sunny-haired, 
Strength  in  each  knotted  muscle  laired, 
Ivory-limbed,  on  the  bold  headland, 
A  breathing  statue,  behold  him  stand ! 

A  leap,  a  plunge,  and  the  foamy  flood 
Clasps  to  its  breast  the  laughing  blood, 
While  the  pliant  arms  like  marble  shine 
In  the  bold  embrace  of  the  buoyant  brine. 

Down,  where  shudder  the  cold  seaweeds, 
To  pastures  where  the  porpoise  feeds, 
Where  the  drum-fish  beats  his  nrystic  drum, 
And  the  silver  mullet  glides  shy  and  dumb ; 

Up,  to  the  light,  on  the  breezy  billow, 
The  wave  his  couch,  and  its  crest  his  pillow ; 
To  dive,  to  float,  to  sink,  to  swim, 
Delight  in  each  luxurious  limb  ! 


THE  SWIMMER.  37 

Stroke  on  stroke,  now  away,  away  — 
Swimmer  and  billow  both  at  play  ; 
While  sea  nymphs  blend,  with  fingers  weird, 
The  green  of  the  wave  with  the  gold  of  his  beard. 

Upward  now  is  his  bare,  broad  breast, 
Stretched  on  the  wave  he  lies  at  rest ; 
Over  his  forehead  the  waters  dip, 
And  lave  the  smile  on  his  swarthy  lip. 

Swift-winged  curlews  swim  the  air, 
Clouds  creep  out  of  their  lofty  lair ; 
While  now  on  the  wave,  now  on  the  wing, 
The  sea-gull  screams  like  a  human  thing. 

Once  and  again,  with  an  agile  grace, 
He  to  the  wave  turns  his  ruddy  face ; 
The  soft,  sweet  wind  blows  out  of  the  south, 
And  lifts  the  brine  to  his  bearded  mouth. 

Parting  the  billows  on  either  hand, 
Glowing  and  dripping,  he  gains  the  land  ; 
Shakes  from  his  locks  and  limbs  the  dew, 
Wrings  his  beard,  and  is  gone  from  view. 


UPON  THE  PEAKS. 


T  STAND  and  gaze,  from  Shenandoah's  height,  — 
-*-     The  western  sun  goes  grandly  to  his  doom  ; 
Day  masks  herself  as  the  gray  nun,  Twilight, 

And  weaves  weird  garments  upon  sunset's  loom. 
The  pyramidic  pines  uprear  their  heads, 

Crowned  with  their  crowns  of  everlasting  green, 
While  o'er  the  mountain  top  the  young  moon  sheds 

Her  mellow  glory  on  the  silent  scene ! 

Within  the  cedar  copse  the  partridge  beats 

A  fond  recall  upon  his  mystic  drum. 
To  paint  the  dying  year  in  her  retreats, 

In  russet  gown  has  sombre  Autumn  come. 
The  hectic  flush  is  on  the  maple's  cheek, 

A  sallow  hue  the  homely  hickory  wears,  — 
Some  favor  in  the  artist's  eye  to  seek, 

Her  graceful  limbs  the  slender  sapling  bares. 

The  timid  pigeon  folds  her  dusky  wings 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  woody  way ; 


UPON  THE  PEAKS.  39 

Beyond  the  chirring  squirrel  chattering  springs 

To  lead  the  eager  hunter  far  astray. 
The  lonely  whip-poor-will's  unanswered  note 

In  iterant  cadence  thrills  from  yonder  wood, 
Like  human  3Teamings  that  around  us  float, 

Acknowledged,  felt,  yet  never  understood. 

The  rattlesnake  among  the  brushwood  winds, 

A  sightless  wanderer  in  these  autumn  days ; 
The  cooling  streamlet  he  by  instinct  finds, 

Then  coils  beneath  the  dogwood's  crimson  blaze. 
The  wild  clematis,  prone  to  toy  and  tease, 

Her  white  cap  tosses  archly  to  the  wind  ; 
Then,  like  a  hoyden,  climbs  the  naked  trees 

With  witching  grace,  half  savage,  half  refined. 

In  ruins  lie  the  might}'  oaks  and  pines, 

By  time  hewn  down  a  hundred  years  agone,  — 
Proud  columns  torn  from  nature's  solemn  shrines, 

To  crumble  here  unmourned,  unmissed,  unknown. 
The  wintry  winds  rush  o'er  them  unrestrained, 

The  lichen  wraps  them  in  its  velvet  shroud,  — 
By  mortal  touch  their  grandeur  unprofaned, 

By  mortal  hand  their  majesty  unbowed. 

Wave  after  wave,  the  hills  their  heads  uprear ; 

Afar,  the  billowy  mountains  boldly  rise, 
Like  waters  checked  in  full  and  mad  career, 

Toward  the  blue  illimitable  skies  ; 


40  UPON  THE  PEAKS. 

In  motionless  magnificence  they  stand, 

The  azure  peak,  the  undulating  hill,  — 
Wild  seas  to  which,  in  gentle  reprimand, 

The  voice  of  Christ  has  murmured,  "  Peace,  be  still !  " 

What,  to  the  seal  of  all-transcendent  Power 

Here  stamped  on  crag,  and  rock,  and  rent  al^ss, 
Was  ancient  Babylon  in  her  happiest  hour, 

Or  Thebes,  or  Tyre,  or  proud  Persepoiis?  — 
What  were  Palmyra's  palaces  to  these  ? 

Her  sculptured  fanes  to  such  God-written  pages,  — 
These  mountain  kings  of  mountain  monarchies, 

These  sage  instructors  of  the  proudest  sages  ? 

Ye  hoary  peaks  !  ye  proud  exulting  heights ! 

Ye  stony  sponsors  for  the  passing  years  ! 
For  you  Time  hath  no  changes,  Death  no  blights, 

And  Life  no  mildew,  miser}1,  nor  tears. 
The  solemn  centuries,  marching  to  the  tomb 

In  changing  ranks,  unchanging  will  ye  see  ; 
Till  clashing  cycles  toll  the  hour  of  doom, 

That  merges  Time  into  Eternity. 


LOST  AND   FOUND. 


T    OST  !  a  sunny-featured  child, 

•*— '  Winsome,  wayward,  loving,  wild, — 
Blooming  cheeks  and  amber  tresses, 
Lisping  speech  and  sweet  caresses  ; 

Lost,  lost,  lost,  lost ! 
Have  her  feet  thy  pathway  crossed  ? 

Lost !  oh,  listen  !  lost !  a  child, 
Fair,  and  dear,  and  undefiled  ; 
Lost !  all  those  unworded  blisses 
Garnered  in  a  baby's  kisses  ; 

Lost,  lost,  lost,  lost ! 
Spare  her,  world  !  thy  fire,  thy  frost ! 

Coaxing  lips  and  stainless  brow, 
Eyes  like  violets  under  snow, 
Dimples,  where  the  Witch  of  Laughter 
Hid,  and  drew  the  roses  after ; 

Lost,  lost,  lost,  lost ! 
Winds  !  where  are  her  tresses  tossed? 


42  LOST  AND  FOUND. 

Child,  such  as  the  artist  saint, 
Raffaelle  Sanzio,  loved  to  paint, 
When  he  put  in  angel  places 
Little,  happy,  human  faces ; 

Lost,  lost,  lost,  lost! 
Seas,  hath  she  your  billows  crossed  ? 


"Who  will  bring  my  darling  back 
To  my  desolate  life  track,  — 
Back  with  all  her  wayward  winning, 
Artless  arts,  and  sinless  sinning? 

Lost,  lost,  lost,  lost ! 
Earth,  hath  she  thy  boundaries  crossed  ? 


FOUND. 


!  a  maiden  tall  and  slender,  — 
Eyes  of  strange,  magnetic  splendor ; 
Lips,  whose  coaxing  crimson  teaches 
To  my  heart  its  tenderest  speeches  ; 
Hands  that  lie  to-day  in  mine, 
Pilgrims  resting  at  a  shrine  ; 
Calm,  courageous,  girlish  mouth  ; 
Breath  as  sweet  as  zephyrs  south 


FOUND.  43 

Which,  o'er  brake  and  over  brine, 
Bear  orange  scents  and  jessamine. 
Mingled  with  a  rare  discreetness, 
Hath  she  fascinating  sweetness  ; 
With  a  woman's  soul  intense 
Linked  a  child's  fresh  confidence. 
Found  !  whose  baby  locks  I  curled,  — 
Found,  "  unspotted  from  the  world,"  — 

Found,  found,  found,  found, 
Whom  I  sought  the  earth  around ! 


All  the  witching  arrogance 
Of  happiness  her  charms  enhance  ; 
In  her  lithesome,  leopard  grace 
Lies  a  rare  ancestral  trace  ; 
In  the  pose  of  her  young  head, 
Pride  and  gentleness  inbred  ; 
In  her  gestures,  free  from  guile, 
In  her  glance,  and  in  her  smile, 
Lightly  lies  the  fact  disguised, 
The  woman  has  the  child  surprised  ! 
All  my  lost  one's  curls  are  there, 
In  her  braids  of  golden  hair ; 
All  m}'  little  one's  caresses 
In  the  maiden's  gentle  kisses  ; 
All  of  childhood's  better  part 
In  the  maiden's  warm,  }'oung  heart. 

Found,  found,  found,  found  ! 
Hath  the  earth  a  gladder  sound? 


44  POUND. 

Found !  oh,  hear  me  !  found  !  a  woman 
Most  angelically  human ; 
All  the  child's  imperfect  sweetness 
Rounded  to  a  rare  completeness. 
Worldly  evil  —  deed  nor  word  — 
Never  from  her  brow  has  stirred 
The  white,  white  bird  of  innocence 
Resting  there  with  reverence. 
Infancy  has  dowered  her  youth 
With  its  pureness  and  its  truth. 
On  the  ills  that  round  her  be, 
Falls  her  sunny  charity. 
At  the  candor  of  her  lips 
Falsehood  shudders  in  eclipse. 
Living  for  exalted  aims, 
True  to  all  life's  noblest  claims, 
I  have  found  her  —  undefiled, 
In  the  woman  all  the  child ! 


L' AM  OUR. 


T  SEARCHED  the  garden  of  my  heart, 
And  found  a  strange  flower  there ; 
Its  breath  was  sweet 
In  the  lone  retreat, 
And  its  mystic  face 
Illumined  the  place, 
Where  from  other  blossoms  it  bloomed  apart. 

I  touched  its  petals  bright  and  rare, 

And  said,  "  Whence  art  thou,  O  flower? 
A  wondrous  grace 
I  see  in  thy  face  ; 

Take  root  in  my  heart, 
For  no  more  we  part "  — 
Came  the  chilling  whisper,  "  Beware !  beware  ! " 

I  smiled  and  bent  the  bloom  above ; 
"  Who  warneth  me  thus?"  I  said. 
"  I  am  blessing  and  blight, 
I  am  pain  and  delight, 


46  L'AMOUR. 

I  am  drought  and  dew, 
I  am  Laurel  and  Rue, 
I  am  all  things  in  one  ;  my  name  is  Love ! " 

With  joy  supreme  my  soul  was  rife  ; 
I  gathered  and  wear  the  flower : 
It  is  blessing  and  balm, 
It  is  rapture  and  calm, 
It  is  wisdom  and  truth, 
It  is  beauty  and  youth, 
And  ermine,  and  sceptre,  and  crown  of  life ! 


CARNIVAL  SONG. 


T    ONG  live  the  King !  shout,  one  and  all ! 
"^^  Long  live  the  King  of  the  Carnival, 

The  King  and  his  merry  Court ! 
Greet  him  with  shout,  and  cheer,  and  song, 
For  oh !  life's  Lenten  days  are  long, 

Its  Carnival  is  short. 

Long  live  the  King  !  though  brief  may  be 
His  regal  pomp  and  pageantry  ; 

Some  good  must  follow  after 
A  sway  unblemished  by  a  tear, 
A  rule  unclouded  by  a  care,  — 

One  royal  reign  of  laughter ! 

His  name  is  heard  in  every  hall ; 
His  banner  floats  from  every  wall, 

Like  some  benignant  pinion 
Which  in  its  ro}'al  plumage  bears 
Respite  to  all  from  one  day's  cares 

Throughout  the  King's  dominion. 


48  CARNIVAL  SONG. 

Most  sovereign  Grace !  an  easy  thing 
It  is  for  any  crowned  king 

To  set  Grief's  tear-drops  running ; 
Thine  aim,  to  grant  to  every  lip 
From  pleasure's  bowl  one  harmless  sip, 

Requires  more  dexterous  cunning. 


Rejoice,  O  Sire !  that  thine  it  is 
To  add  some  mite  to  human  bliss, 

To  make  some  lives  the  brighter. 
How  few  can  say  that  for  one  day 
The  world  was  happier  for  their  sway, 

One  single  heart  the  lighter ! 


May  every  subject  bend  the  knee 
In  glad  allegiance  unto  thee, 

O  King  of  fun  and  folly  ! 
The  old  be  young,  the  young  be  gay, 
The  brown  locks  mingle  with  the  gray, 

And  ah1  the  world  be  jolly. 


What  though  the  snow  be  on  the  hair, 
And  all  be  dim,  once  debonair, 

The  heart  grows  aged  never ; 
Its  sap  is  the  sap  of  the  evergreen, 
And  'neath  thy  sceptre's  magic  sheen 

Will  flow  as  fresh  as  ever. 


CARNIVAL  SONG.  49 

Then  live  the  King !  shout,  one  and  all ! 
Long  live  the  King  of  the  Carnival ! 

Greet  him  with  shout  and  song. 
All  hail,  the  King  and  his  merry  Court  \ 
For  oh !  life's  Carnival  is  short, 

Its  Lenten  season  long. 


LOUISIANA  TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 


'"THHROUGH  the  ambient  spaces  swinging,  hark, 

Comes  a  voice  of  welcome  ringing !    Dark 
And  heavy  has  my  heart  lain  broken,  while 
It  longed  for  one  such  token,  one  such  smile, 

Massachusetts ! 

I  have  bowed  in  dust  and  ashes,  scarred 
Foully  by  defiling  lashes,  marred 
By  those  who,  in  my  proud  and  palmy  days, 
Loved  best  to  twine  my  balmy  wreath  of  ba}-s, 

Massachusetts. 

I  have  drooped,  despised  in  anguish, — 3*ea, 
Foes  have  laughed  to  see  me  languish  ;  the}' 
Have  cursed  me,  scourged  me,  and  upbraided  —  gods ! 
I  lay  unarmed,  unaided  'neath  their  rods, 

Massachusetts ! 

But,  in  hours  of  my  unsparing  woe, 
Flood  and  Famine  at  me  staring,  —  lo ! 


LOUISIANA  TO  MASSACHUSETTS.  51 

I,  groping  helpless,  faint  and  gasping,  there 
A  hand  felt  clasping  mine  in  my  despair, 

Massachusetts ! 

And  that  hand  poured  forth  its  treasure,  fair, 
Golden,  without  stint  or  measure,  where 
It  fed  and  feeds  like  heavenly  manna  yet, 
And  Louisiana  never  can  forget 

Massachusetts. 

From  thy  hearth  was  caught  the  ember  brand 
Which  fired  the  souls  of  my  September  band ; 
My  martyred  heroes  rushed  to  battle  then, 
And  Concord's  musket-rattle  rang  again, 

Massachusetts ! 

Sisters,  from  one  sire  descended,  we 
Tyrants'  chains  alike  have  rended.     See  ! 
Louisiana,  wronged,  blasphemed,  undone, 
Now  free,  redeemed,  responds  to  Lexington, 

Massachusetts. 

NEW  ORLEANS,  Nov.  29, 1874. 


THEY   SAY. 


r  \  AHEY  say  't  is  perfect  weather ;  that  the  days 

-^      Are  strangely  lovely,  and  the  long  nights  fair ; 
That  down  the  lanes  the  laughing  Autumn  comes 

With  purple  asters  in  her  golden  hair. 
They  say  her  slender  feet  are  hid  in  bloom, 

That  in  her  crown  the  golden-rod  is  glad ; 
In  scarfs  of  wild  peas  and  of  passion- vines, 

They  say  her  form  is  beautifully  clad. 

They  say  the  forests  never  were  so  fair ; 

The  distant  skies,  they  say,  were  never  bluer ; 
And  they  that  clasp  hands  send  a  whisper  down, 

To  say  that  never  yet  were  true  hearts  truer. 
They  say  the  white  waves  on  the  scrolled  beach 

Sing  to  the  white  stars  in  the  clear  night  sky  ; 
They  say  the  pine-tree  on  the  sandy  shore 

Is  Summer's  harp,  on  which  she  chants  "  Good-by." 

They  say  the  late  bird,  in  the  orange-boughs, 
Fills  with  a  music  shower  his  leafy  lair ; 

That  each  note,  perfected  by  Summer's  hand, 
Drops  like  a  jewel  through  the  yellow  air. 


THEY  SAY.  53 

For  me,  alas  !  for  me,  the  late  bird  sings 

Of  Summer  hopes  that  lost  themselves  in  calms, 

And  left  me  standing,  with  a  starving  heart, 

At  Autumn's  gates,  with  hands  too  proud  for  alms. 


WILLIAM  BARRON'S   BALCONY, 

TACUBAYA,   MEXICO. 


T~)ENEATH  my  feet  a  wondrous  garden  lies. 

J-J  So  rich  its  mass  of  color,  light,  and  shade, 
Its  blended  tints,  its  contrast  of  rare  hues, 
T  is  like  the  Persian's  magic  mat  of  old, 
There  waiting  but  the  pressure  of  a  foot, 
The  utterance  of  a  wish,  to  bear  one  hence. 

Chained  unto  Wealth's  all-conquering  chariot  wheel, 

Stand  India's  floral  queens,  and  Afric's  palms. 

Beneath  the  frigid  glitter  of  snow  peaks 

Fair  tropic  captives  keep  their  native  bloom, 

In  beauty's  pride  defying  any  fate. 

Cedars  are  there,  the  rarest  of  their  race, 

Whose  ancestors  were  great  in  Lebanon. 

The  Eucal3"ptus  straightens  its  tall  form 

Until  its  head  is  reared  so  high  in  air 

Men  look  in  wonder  at  its  lofty  crown, 

And  one,  a  simple  poet,  sa^ys,  "  Perhaps 

It  hath  a  human  longing  in  its  heart, 


WILLIAM  BARRON'S  BALCONY.  55 

And  hastens  upward,  hoping  for  a  height 
From  which  it  may  behold  its  native  home 
In  far-away  Australia's  sea-girt  soil." 

Among  the  shadows,  lab}Tin thine  walks 
Beguile  the  feet  toward  enchanting  groves  ; 
Toward  caverns  guarded  by  the  graven  gods 
Which  Aztec  worshippers  adored  and  feared  ; 
Toward  grottos,  formed  so  cunningly  b}?  man, 
Nature  herself  claims  credit  of  his  work, 
And  smiling  tells,  in  each  delusive  spot, 
In  chasm,  cascade,  dripping  rock  and  gorge, 
In  broken  paths  and  sudden  dungeon  glooms, 
In  rugged  rift  and  briery  opening, 
"  The  height  of  art  is  all  art  to  conceal." 

Long  lakes,  in  ferny  borders  framed,  give  back 
The  azure  of  the  sky.     Swimming  swans 
Grace  the  reflective  waters,  and  the  sound 
Of  tinkling  fountains  thrills  the  balm}-  air, 
Just  making  silence  audible. 

Far  beyond 

The  rare  exotics  and  the  perfect  lawns, 
Rises  the  rocky  and  historic  height 
On  which,  in  quaint  and  picturesque  grandeur,  stands 
The  grand  old  castle  of  Chapultepec. 
Beside  the  broad  road  winding  at  its  base, 
Among  the  antique  baths  and  sculptures  old, 
Tower  the  giant  cypress-trees  which  struck 
Their  first  roots  here  in  centuries  unknown 


56  WILLIAM  BARRON'S  BALCONY. 

To  those  they  sheltered  centuries  ago. 
Their  boughs  were  mighty  in  the  grand  old  days 
When  proud,  imperious  Montezuma  loved 
To  gather  'neath  them  nobles  of  his  Court, 
And  the  dusk  faces  of  his  thousand  wives. 
Under  their  shelter  Guatimozin  stood, 
The  young,  heroic,  martyred  Aztec  Prince, 
Wrhen  conquering  princes  built  the  scorching  fires 
Under  his  faithful  and  unflinching  feet. 

Kings  and  their  kingly  races  have  passed  on  ; 

But  by  the  castle  gates  the  cypresses, 

Draped  in  their  swinging  scarfs  of  pendent  moss, 

Stand  in  their  uncrowned  kingliness  calmly  there, 

Like  gray-locked  bards  from  Odin's  ancient  halls, 

And  proudly  chant  "  the  days  of  the  years  of  the  Past." 

Gelid  as  polar  ice,  dumb  as  dumb  death, 
Upon  the  right,  Iztaccihuatl  soars. 
Rigid  and  awful  in  a  ghastly  shroud, 
She  lies  outstretched  upon  her  lofty  bier, 
While  round  her  stiffened  throat,  departing  day 
A  scintillant  gorget  clasps  of  crimson  light, 
Smitten  from  anvils  of  the  setting  sun. 

Beyond  her,  pallid  Popocatepetl ! 
Autocrat  of  heights,  upon  whose  head 
The  keen,  censorious  centuries  have  laid 
No  gray,  rebuking  finger  of  decay, 


WILLIAM  BAURON'S  BALCONY.  57 

He  lifts  aloft  his  time-anointed  brow 
As  radiantly  serene,  and  smooth,  and  white 
As  some  pure  page  which  lies  as  yet  unwrit 
'Neath  the  Recording  Angel's  lifted  hand. 
Before  his  icy  scrutiny  lies  spread 
The  vale  of  Anahuac,  a  palimpsest 
Whereon  the  writing  of  to-day  blots  out 
The  occult  hieroglyphs  of  3Testerday. 

So  he  beheld  the  coming  of  that  race 
Which  peopled  first  these  plains.     So  he  looked  on 
The  hands  that  hewed  their  stones,  and  reared  their  mounds, 
And  builded  up  their  temples.     So  he  read 
Their  lost,  mj'sterious  histories,  and  saw 
The  unrecorded  splendors  of  their  reign. 
He  keeps  the  secret  of  their  graven  gods, 
Their  altars,  and  their  wild  idolatries. 
He  knows  whence  came  they,  whither  they  have  gone  ; 
And  all  which  hungering  savans  yearn  to  know 
He  holds  between  his  grim  lips,  telling  naught. 
He  sees  the  arch  outlast  the  architect, 
The  slirine  survive  its  worshipper,  the  dome 
Glitter  undimmed  above  its  builder's  dust. 
Himself  the  centre  of  the  C3'clone  Change, 
Mutations  move  him  not.     Men  come  and  go, 
Science  works  its  miracles,  worlds  revolve, 
Battle  and  Famine  crowd  against  each  other, 
The  lance  of  Knowledge  bears  down  Ignorance  ; 
But  midst  all  changes  he  unchanging  stands, 
His  foot  on  buried  kingdoms,  and  his  crown 

8* 


58  WILLIAM  BARRON'S  BALCONY. 

Shining  upon  the  key  that  could  unlock 
The  mystic  portals  of  Antiquity. 

Hushed  as  the  hopes  a  lover  dares  not  breathe, 
Lest  speech  should  break  the  magic  of  love's  spell, 
Fair  and  afar  the  vale  of  Mexico, 
With  its  strange  beauty  and  its  wasted  powers, 
The  eye  rejoices,  and  the  thought  aggrieves. 
'Neath  Evening's  stroking  fingers,  soothed  and  calm, 
It  lies  among  its  fragrant  shadows,  like 
Some  Eastern  Queen  who  indolently  courts 
Repose  beneath  the  scented  fan,  slow-waved 
Above  her  by  some  Odalisk's  patient  hand. 

On  ever}-  side  the  milky  maguey  grows, 
Resting  upon  the  soil  like  tufts  of  plumes 
Which  some  despairing  chieftain  band  of  yore, 
Suddenly  sinking  from  existence,  left 
Behind  to  tell  it  was  —  and  is  no  more. 

Laden  with  bales  of  modern  merchandise, 
A  troop  of  plodding  donkeys  yonder  winds 
Toward  the  dusty  road  that  leads  along 
The  arches  of  that  ancient  aqueduct 
Which,  to  the  eager  lips  of  Cortez,  brought 
The  cool,  sweet  waters  from  the  rugged  hills,  — 
A  blessing  from  the  hands  he  came  to  smite. 

In  middle  distance,  dark  and  motionless, 
Against  a  ruined  column  dreamily 


WILLIAM  BARRON'S  BALCONY.  59 

An  Indian  woman  leans,  with  gaze  that  seems 

Fixed  on  the  faded  glories  of  her  tribe. 

Close  to  her  breast  a  slumbering  child  is  held  ; 

Another  stands  half  hidden  in  the  garb 

That  picturesquely  drapes  the  unconscious  grace 

Which  is  the  mother's  savage  heritance. 

So  statuesque  the  form  of  each  and  all, 

They  seem  a  group  chiselled  in  murk  obsidian. 

Fronting  the  eye,  a  league  or  more  away, 
On  Tenochtitlan's  site  stands  Mexico, 
The  splendid  city  of  the  splendid  plain. 
Its  moss-grown  domes,  its  ancient  Moorish  towers, 
Its  crumbling  convents  and  its  fountained  courts, 
Its  palace  portals  and  its  time-stained  gates, 
Rise,  where  Tezcuco's  waters  once  were  blue, 
And  view  this  land  of  conquered  conquerors. 

The  purple  hills  clasp  hands  around  its  walls, 
The  unrivalled  skies  pour  their  rich  splendor  down. 
The  sunset  fades,  and  o'er  the  darkening  plain, 
Out  from  their  tall  towers,  slow  and  mournfully 
The  solemn  bells  of  the  Cathedral  peal ! 


THE  SUMMER. 


I 


"T  came  with  bloom, 

And  sweet  perfume, 
And  brooksongs  low  and  tender ; 

With  pinks  awake, 

For  Summer's  sake, 
And  days  and  nights  of  splendor. 

It  came  with  birds, 

And  low  of  herds, 
And  3*outhful  footsteps  straying 

Be}'ond  the  yields 

Of  harvest  fields, 
While  farmer  folk  went  haying. 


Now  Summer's  dawn 
And  dusk  are  gone ; 

And  Autumn  winds  come  straying 
Through  lane  and  wood, 
Where  erst  we  stood 

When  farmer  folk  went  haj'ing. 


TI1E  SUMMER.  61 

But  all  it  brought, 

And  all  it  taught, 
That  Summer  raid  the  mowing, 

And  what  was  said, 

While  cheeks  grew  red,  — 
What  would  ye  give  for  knowing? 


FLORA  MCDONALD. 


T^VEAD  in  the  morgue  there,  nobody  claiming  her, 
•^^^     Nobody  watching  beside  the  young  head, 
Nobody  missing  her,  nobody  naming  her, 
Nobody  mourning  because  she  is  dead. 

Out  in  the  night-wind  the  street  lamps  flare  wearily, 
Autumn  leaves  down  from  their  branches  are  whirled  ; 

Yonder,  with  dead  eyelids  folded  down  drearily, 
Poor  human  leaf  drifted  out  of  the  world ! 

Nobod}*  mourning  her,  no  one  so  daring, 
Poor  fragile  wreck  on  life's  desolate  shore ; 

Only  a  Christ  dares  to  share  such  despairing, 
Murmur  forgiveness,  and  "  Go,  sin  no  more." 

Youthful  and  fair  once,  white-souled  and  so  winning, 
Pure  as  the  purest  that  ever  drew  breath, 

Fresh  as  a  flower  in  its  bud  and  beginning,  — 
Love,  with  a  kiss,  stung  its  beaut}'  to  death ! 


FLORA.  MCDONALD.  63 

Poor  wretched  heart,  with  no  arms  to  enfold  it, 
Cheated  and  wronged  of  its  teuderest  needs,  — 

Like  some  frail  vine,  with  no  good  thing  to  hold  it, 
Turning  at  last  to  entwine  about  weeds  ! 

Out  on  life's  stage  to  find  all  the  crowd  hissing  her, 
Shuddering  and  striving  to  hide  her  poor  face  ; 

Reaching  for  aims  that  forever  were  missing  her, 
Fainting  and  falling  to  shame  and  disgrace. 

But  in  the  morgue  there  is  no  more  to  worry  her : 
Charity,  Love,  nor  Uprightness  draw  near ; 

Too  cleanly  Purity  e'en  to  help  bury  her, 
Virtue  too  holy  to  give  her  a  tear. 

Hark !  comes  a  sound  from  the  ranks  unrespected, 
Murmur  of  voices  —  a  woman's  kind  tone  — 

Saying,  "  Tis  shameful  to  leave  her  neglected, 
Friendless,  forsaken,  and  dead  here  alone. 

"  Come  ye  here,  women !     Our  fingers  shall  spin  her 
Shroud  white  as  any  for  saint  in  the  land  ; 

We  are  all  sinners,  —  and  she  was  a  sinner,  — 
Let  her  receive  Christian  rites  at  our  hand. 

"  Poor  murdered  creature  !  our  hearts  know  the  aching, 
Love,  turned  a  liar,  can  give  with  a  sneer  ; 

All  of  us  know  just  what  cruel  forsaking 

Shattered  this  girl's  life  and  hurried  her  here. 


64  FLORA  MCDONALD. 

"  Coffin  her  tenderly,  shroud  her  all  whitely, 
Twine  ye  the  roses  in  cross  and  in  crown ; 

Place  her  tired  feet  and  hands  decently,  rightly." 
So  did  these  women  there,  —  they  "  of  the  town." 

They  to  that  shrine  in  the  morgue  brought  the  preacher, 
Wept  they  for  her  whom  nobody  would  own, 

As  fell  the  words  of  Christ  Jesus,  the  Teacher, 
"  Who  without  sin,  let  him  cast  the  first  stone." 

So  did  they  bury  her,  —  they  the  unholy ; 

So  did  they  give  her  their  pity  and  care  ; 
So  they  wept  for  her,  the  lost  and  the  lowly,  — 

Won  the  deed  no  recognition  Up  There  ? 

Aye !  on  the  page  which  the  angel  was  smiting 
With  sins  of  the  Lost,  a  great  glory  swept  down, 

Setting  across  them  in  luminous  writing 

This  deed  of  the  women  there,  —  they  "  of  the  town." 


MY  LADY. 


THERE  she  stands  — 
Looking  along  the  low  and  level  lands, 
To  where  the  sea's  pulse  beats  upon  the  sands ; 
A  scarlet  blossom  in  her  quiet  hands  — 

My  Lady ! 

Tall  and  fair, 

Slender  and  pliant  as  young  willows  are  ; 
From  arching  foot  to  crown  of  braided  hair, 
Beauty 's  supreme  and  undisputed  heir  — 

My  Lady ! 

Richer  glows, 

Her  brow's  immaculate  ivory  now  shows  ; 
Dipped  in  a  blush,  Thought's  tender  pencil  throws, 
On  each  fair  cheek,  the  warm  light  of  a  rose  — 

My  Lady ! 

Through  the  pines 

An  unexpected  sunbeam  slanting  shines, 
And,  softening  more  the  more  that  it  declines, 
The  barren  landscape  brightens  and  refines 

Supremely. 


66  MY  LADY. 

Searching  there, 

It  finds  My  Lady  with  her  young  head  bare ; 
And,  stealing  seaward,  darts  with  regal  care 
A  golden  arrow  through  her  golden  hair  — 

My  Lady ! 

Her  gray  eyes 

Lift  themselves  upward,  dreamy  and  cloud-wise, 
To  wander  past  aerial  argosies, 
And  seek  an  eye-path  to  the  sunset  skies  — 

My  Lady ! 

For  she  knows, 

Toward  the  scaffold  of  the  west  there  goes 
Each  eve  a  veiled  young  Day,  who  meekly  bows 
Beneath  Tune's  sure  and  unrelenting  blows  — 

My  Lady ! 

She  has  stood 

Oft  and  again,  as  now,  in  pensive  mood 
Between  the  salty  sea  and  piny  wood, 
While  the  vast  Occident  blazed  with  sunset's  blood  — 

My  Lady ! 

And  the  crime 

Spilled  its  red  splendor  on  the  blue  sublime, 
And  splashed  the  white  stars  with  its  crimson  grime, 
Until  Night  sponged  it  from  the  walls  of  time  — 

My  Lady! 


MY  LADY.  67 

Now  she  stands, 

And  looks  along  the  low  and  level  lands 
To  where  the  still  sky  stoops  to  stiller  sands  ; 
The  scarlet  flower  forgotten  in  her  hands  — 

My  Lady ! 

Oh  for  grace 

To  paint  the  sweet,  strange  beauty  of  her  face, 
In  whose  exquisite  lineaments  I  trace 
The  lordliest  sigils  of  her  lordly  race  — 

My  Lady ! 

A  memory, 

A  dream  of  one  fair  dreamer  by  the  sea, 
In  her  unusual  beauty  she  must  be 
Through  all  the  future  of  my  life  to  me  — 

My  Lady ! 

Standing  there, 

She  looks  so  pure,  so  marvellously  fair, 
She  seems  like  some  embodied  Christian  prayer 
Which  hastening  angels  seek  to  heavenward  bear  — 

My  Lady ! 

• 

Yet  I  dare 

To  laj'  m}T  soul  where  her  feet  resting  are, 
Believing  she  can  lift  it  up  afar, 
Beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  sunset  star  — 

My  Lady  I 


ASUNDER. 


T  MOURN !     O  Love,  what  miles  of  sky, 
•^      What  weary,  weary  miles  of  sea, 
Stretch  out  beneath,  stretch  out  on  high, 
In  maddening  immensity, 

My  darling  one,  'twixt  you  and  me  ! 

Ten  thousand  pleasures  lie  between, 

Ten  thousand  thousand  hearts  of  care ; 
But  whatsoever  intervene, 
For  me  one  woe  spans  all  the  scene, 
That  I  am  here  and  thou  art  there. 

To  Nature's  feast  of  sweet  perfumes, 

In  saintly  white  and  stainless  union, 
Come  stealing  forth  from  verdant  glooms 
The  proud  Magnolia's  peerless  blooms, 
Like  virgins  to  their  first  Communion. 

I  look  at  them  and  think  of  thee, 
Thy  perfect  form,  thy  sinless  face ; 

How  fair  a  flower  thou  art  to  me, 

How  sacred  in  the  sanctity 

Of}*outhful  beauty,  pureness,  grace! 


ASUNDER.  69 

Above  the  flowers  I  see  the  stars,  — 

Those  golden  ships  in  azure  seas, 
With  silent  decks  and  shining  spars, 
Anchored  beyond  all  earthly  bars 

In  the  unknown  eternities  : 

Still  farther  are  those  stars  away 
Than  thou,  my  darling,  art  from  me ; 

Yet,  let  mine  eyes  seek  as  they  may, 

To  thee  they  cannot  find  their  way 
Across  the  cruel  land  and  sea ! 

But  when  Sleep's  dusky  hands  surprise 
Mine  eyes,  no  more  we'll  parted  be  ; 

For  Night,  that  jewelled  bridge  that  lies 

Between  the  sunset  and  sunrise, 
In  dreams  I  '11  cross  and  be  with  thee. 


WHEN. 


T  T  THEN  I  am  in  my  coffin  laid, 

O  Love  !  look  not  upon  my  face ; 
Let  not  so  cold,  so  pale  a  thing 
Dreams  of  my  living  self  replace. 

The  hands  of  ice,  the  cheek  of  snow, 
O'er  which  thy  breath  unheeded  plaj's, 

The  idle  pulse,  the  frozen  veins, 
The  eyes  ungladdened  by  thy  gaze  ; 

The  deafened  ear,  the  lifeless  lips, 
The  brow  of  stone,  the  chilly  hair, 

The  heart  unmoved  at  thy  approach,  — 
What  semblance  of  thy  darling  there  ? 

Kiss  me  good-by  while  yet  the  throb 
Of  sweet  existence  is  my  own  ; 

While  yet  I  thrill  beneath  thy  lip, 
Yet  drink  the  richness  of  thy  tone ! 


WHEN.  71 

While  yet  mine  eyes  can  see  in  thine 

No  look  of  anguish  to  deplore, 
Kiss  me  good-b}T ;  then  go  thy  way, 

And  look  upon  my  face  no  more : 

Aye !  go  thy  way,  cast  not  a  glance 

Again  upon  my  drooping  head  ; 
Remember  me  as  living,  warm, 

And  fair,  and  fond,  and  true ;  not  —  dead ! 


SONG. 


"|% /TY  little  one,  my  little  one, 
_LTJ.     -j^e  biossom  is  not,  faded  yet 

You  gave  me  once  at  set  of  sun, 
And  whispered,  "  I  will  ne'er  forget,  — 
Will  ne'er  forget ! " 

Its  petals  still  their  hues  retain  ; 

I  touch  it,  and  it  crumbles  not ; 
I  la}*  it  on  m}*  heart  again,  — 

But,  little  one,  thou  hast  forgot,  — 

Thou  hast  forgot ! 


GUY'S   GOLD. 


TV  TOT  from  the  Western  gulches, 
•*•  ^     Nor  Indian  isles  of  old ; 
Not  from  Peruvian  gorges, 
Nor  Russia's  rigid  hold, 
Was  gathered  the  wonderful  treasure, 
Was  meted  the  bountiful  measure,  — 

Guy's  Gold. 

No  opulent  Mexic  valleys, 

No  Asian  hillsides  bold, 
No  Inca's  brimming  coffers, 

No  miser  hoards  untold, 
Were  ever  so  rich  as  to  render 
This  shimmering,  scintillant  splendor,  - 

Guy's  Gold. 

There,  in  the  ancient  doorway, 
Guy  sits  ;  the  sun  goes  west ; 

Suddenty  o'er  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  o'er  his  breast, 


74  GUY'S  GOLD. 

Three  happy  young  faces  are  beaming, 
And  over  his  bosom  goes  streaming 

Guy's  Gold. 


Coronet,  braid,  and  ringlet, 
Missing  their  ribboned  hold, 

Shining  like  summer  moonlight, 
Untwist,  uncurl,  unfold. 

Pressed  deep  in  the  turbulent  tresses, 

A  hand  fondly  reverent  blesses 

Guy's  Gold. 


Down  from  each  fair  young  forehead 

A  dainty  flower  has  rolled  : 
One  is  a  red  pomegranate, 

Blossom  all  fire  and  gold  ; 
One  fragrant  white  jasmine  had  printed, 
One  deep-hearted  lily  had  tinted, 

Guy's  Gold. 


He  lifts  the  falling  flowers  ; 

In  them  his  fond  eye  traces 
A  vague,  sweet  symbolism 

Of  all  the  joyous  faces, 
While  over  his  shoulder  is  swinging, 
And  unto  his  bosom  is  clinging, 

Guy's  Gold. 


GUY'S  GOLD.  75 

Then  laughter  comes,  and  kisses, 

Girls'  words  in  merry  chase  ; 
While  sweet,  unwritten  music 

Leaps  out  on  Guy's  glad  face,  — 
Thanks  God  for  the  wealth  he  's  caressing, 
Thanks  God  for  that  infinite  blessing, 

Guy's  Gold. 

He  close  and  closer  clasps  it,  — 

Guinea,  nor  Onnus  old, 
E'er  in  auriferous  caverns 

Held  wealth  that  he  doth  hold,  — 
And,  praying,  he  asks  the  All-Father 

To  tenderly  guard  and  to  gather 

Guy's  Gold ; 

Pra3*s  that  by  day  and  night-time, 

Whate'er  beguile  or  appall, 
His  hand  be  laid  in  kindness 

And  merc}T-love  on  all, 
Until  for  Time's  silver  is  bartered, 
Until  for  high  Heaven  is  chartered, 

Guy's  Gold. 


WHAT  I  SAW  IN  MY  SLEEP. 


T  SAW  a  radiant  woman  stand 
•*•     Before  me  in  my  feverish  dreams  ; 
And  her  brow  was  white  as  a  sea-sand  drift 
On  which  the  lightning  gleams. 

There  was  a  glimpse  of  Heaven  in  her  eye, 

A  gleam  of  Hell  in  her  yellow  hair ; 
She  was  one  of  those  angel  fiends,  I  knew, 

That  women  sometimes  are. 

She  spoke  ;  her  voice  like  a  censer  swung 

Perfumes  on  the  palpitating  air ; 
She  had  fed  it,  I  knew,  on  the  daintiest  sweets 

In  the  Hadien  parterre.  m 

She  had  the  tone  of  a  dulcet  bird, 

She  deftly  spoke  with  an  adder's  tongue  ; 

And  every  enticing  word  she  said, 
With  serpent's  poison  stung. 


WHAT  I  SAW  IN  MY  SLEEP.  77 

Her  sea-green  e}'es  were  fair  to  behold, 

And  her  crimson  mouth  was  perfect  lipped ; 

But  out  of  her  glance  and  out  of  her  heart 
Invisible  venom  dripped. 

I  saw  her  la}-  her  little  white  hand 

On  trusting  hearts  of  unsinning  men  ; 
And,  after  the  thrill  of  that  Circean  touch, 

They  ne'er  were  pure  again ! 

I  thought  the  flush  on  her  burning  cheeks 
Was  bloom  from  happier  worlds  than  this, 

Till  I  dreamed  in  in}-  dreams  each  round,  red  spot 
Was  Satan's  passionate  kiss. 

Then  I  knew  she  was  some  Plutonian  spy, 
Sent  from  the  sulphurous  nether  earth 

To  wake  the  tenderest  passions  of  men, 
And  poison  them  at  birth. 

So  I  hid  m}-self  from  the  woman's  eyes, 
And  muttered  a  hurried  Christian  praj-er ; 

She  vanished  ;  but  sometimes  I  see  her  yet, 
Miraculously  fair ! 


IN   DUBIO. 


T  SAT  in  the  shade  by  a  running  river, 

And  read  a  runic  rhyme  ; 

While  arrows  of  light,  from  the  sun's  full  quiver, 
Struck  here  and  there  with  a  scintillant  shiver, 
Like  shafts  of  flame 
Sent,  wide  of  their  aim, 
At  the  running  target  Time. 

Away  to  the  world  went  the  river  singing 

Its  own  notorious  lay. 
A  robin  was  earthward  his  music  flinging, 
His  way  o'er  the  meadows  a  plover  was  winging.  ' 
Ah  !  life  was  sweet, 
And  my  pulses  beat 
Time  to  youth's  turbulent  May. 

Around  and  around  on  1x13*  finger,  thinking, 

I  turned  a  golden  ring ; 
From  springs  of  the  present  m}-  life  was  drinking, 


IN  DUBIO.  79 

From  wells  of  the  future  my  lips  were  shrinking ; 
Turning  astray 
From  its  noblest  way, 
The  heart  is  an  aching  thing  ! 

"  Thou 'It  sit,"  said  the  Ring,  "  in  earth's  proudest  places, 

And  Pride  is  Love  in  disguise  ; 
Regret  and  Remorse  will  hide  their  dark  faces 
Forever,  from  paths  which  glad  Opulence  paces." 
O  Sophistry, 
With  th}T  mockery 
Stoning  Truth  to  death  with  lies  ! 

Still,  hesitant,  I  of  myself  alone 

Dreamed  midst  God's  vast  creation, 
And  muttered,  "  I  sin  not ;  gold  shall  atone 
For  life  degraded,  for  love  never  known." 
The  idle  lives 
Of  rich  men's  wives,  — 
Were  they  my  base  temptation  ? 

The  voice  of  my  soul  whispered,  "  Cease  tlry  dreaming ; 

Scorn  what  the  tempter  saith, 
Else  narrow  thy  life  to  a  piteous  seeming, 
Engirdle  thy  days  with  a  shameful  scheming : 
A  solemn  thing 
Is  a  plain  gold  ring, 
And  all  it  encompasseth." 


80  IN  DUBIO. 

Then  seemed  my  heart-beats  a  multitude  hasting 

My  future  to  crucify ; 

The  apples  of  Sodom  my  young  lips  were  tasting, 
Yet  kissed  they  the  ashes  on  which  they  were  wasting ; 
For  the  mean  sake 
Of  a  glittering  stake, 
Mortgaging  life  to  a  lie ! 


"  Can  woman  accept,  "with  its  laws  unbending, 

The  narrow  realm  of  the  Ring ; 
Be  true  to  a  falsehood  that  knows  no  ending, 
Be  false  to  a  truth  that  her  heart  is  rending, 
Yet  hold  her  soul 
In  such  firm  control, 
It  never  shall  faint  'neath  the  sting?" 


I  heard  the  voice  while  the  river  went  sliding 

Its  devious  track  along ; 
With  rugged  places  its  beauty  dividing, 
Feeling  its  way  where  the  cowslips  were  hiding, 
For  better,  for  worse, 
True  unto  its  course, 
Contentedly  still  and  strong. 


I  saw  on  a  rock,  whene  the  sunlight  slanted, 

A  serpent's  fascinant  coil ; 
Its  terrible  beauty  a  bird  enchanted, 


IN  DUBIO.  81 

Till  deep  in  its  bosom  a  fang  was  planted, 
With  its  selfish  lust 
Laying  dead  in  the  dust 
Its  frail,  bewildered  spoil. 

And  I  saw  the  prey  of  a  vulture  bleaching 

Its  bones  on  a  rock}r  shelf. 

"  Lo  !  Nature,"  I  said,  "  is  with  symbols  preaching ; 
The  tone  of  her  wisdom  I  hear  in  her  teaching, 
Saying  to  me, 
'  Undauntedly  be 
A  woman  true  to  herself ! ' " 

Quick  down  in  the  deeps  of  the  silent  river 

I  buried  the  ring  of  gold  ; 
Down  under  the  current  I  saw  it  quiver ; 
Its  dazzling  gleam  with  a  drowning  shiver 
Went  out  of  my  life, 
And  left  it  all  rife 
With  a  woman's  truth  unsold. 


I  gaze  at  the  river  rapidly  running 

Above  the  silver  mosses  ; 
At  the  creeper,  its  scarlet  tankards  sunning, 
Yet  the  drowning  dash  of  the  ripples  shunning ; 
At  the  graceful  dip 
Of  the  lily's  lip 

To  the  gleam  the  water  crosses. 
4*  F 


82  IN  DUBIO. 

I  watch,  while  the  evening  cloud-lands  vary 

From  gold  to  porphyry  ; 
From  out  of  the  blue  floats  an  amber  wherry, 
An  opal  cloud  o'er  the  sunset  to  ferry ; 
And  a  single  star 
Has  crossed  the  bar 
Of  Day,  to  Night's  open  sea. 

Far  o'er  the  hills  is  the  sun  descending, 

The  river  slides  to  the  sea ; 
To  a  past  unpoisoned  is  Memory  bending, 
To  a  joyous  future  my  steps  are  tending,  — 
No  golden  bribe 
Doth  circumscribe 
My  soul's  integrity. 


I 


CREED. 


BELIEVE  if  I  should  die, 
And  3*ou  should  kiss  m}T  eyelids  when  I  lie 
Cold,  dead,  and  dumb  to  all  the  world  contains, 
The  folded  orbs  would  open  at  thy  breath, 
And,  from  its  exile  in  the  isles  of  death, 

Life  would  come  gladty  back  along  my  veins. 

I  believe  if  I  were  dead, 
And  you  upon  my  lifeless  heart  should  tread, 

Not  knowing  what  the  poor  clod  chanced  to  be, 
It  would  find  sudden  pulse  beneath  the  touch 
Of  him  it  ever  loved  in  life  so  much, 

And  throb  again,  warm,  tender,  true  to  thee. 

I  believe  if  on  my  grave, 
Hidden  in  wood}'  deeps  or  by  the  wave, 

Your  e}-es  should  drop  some  warm  tears  of  regret, 
From  every  salty  seed  of  your  dear  grief, 
Some  fair,  sweet  blossom  would  leap  into  leaf, 

To  prove  death  could  not  make  my  love  forget. 


84  CREED. 

I  believe  if  I  should  fade 
Into  those  mystic  realms  where  light  is  made, 

And  3'ou  should  long  once  more  my  face  to  see, 
I  would  come  forth  upon  the  hills  of  night 
And  gather  stars,  like  fagots,  till  thy  sight, 

Led  by  their  beacon  blaze,  fell  full  on  me ! 

I  believe  my  faith  in  thee, 
Strong  as  my  life,  so  nobly  placed  to  be, 

I  would  as  soon  expect  to  see  the  sun 
Fall  like  a  dead  king  from  his  height  sublime, 
His  glory  stricken  from  the  throne  of  time, 

As  thee  un worth  the  worship  thou  hast  won. 

I  believe  who  hath  not  loved 
Hath  half  the  sweetness  of  his  life  unproved  ; 

Like  one  who,  with  the  grape  within  his  grasp, 
Drops  it  with  all  its  crimson  juice  unpressed, 
And  all  its  luscious  sweetness  left  unguessed, 

Out  from  his  careless  and  unheeding  clasp. 

I  believe  love,  pure  and  true, 
Is  to  the  soul  a  sweet,  immortal  dew, 

That  gems  life's  petals  in  its  hours  of  dusk ; 
The  waiting  angels  see  and  recognize 
The  rich  crown  jewel,  Love,  of  Paradise, 

When  life  falls  from  us  like  a  withered  husk. 


TO   THE  MEXICAN  EXILES. 


•  j\AR  from  these  bland  and  balmy  shores 

Your  native  peaks  arise, 
Saluting  with  their  pallid  lips 

Your  bright,  exultant  skies. 
There  Popocatepetl  puts 

Aside  his  crown  of  cloud, 
And  wears  the  snow  from  which  was  wrought 

Iztaccihuatl's  shroud. 

There,  one  by  one,  the  stars  step  forth 

At  gray-e}*ed  twilight's  beck, 
And,  helmeted  in  gold,  stand  guard 

Above  Chapultepec. 
The  evening  gales  are  scented  with 

The  sighs  of  sleeping  flowers, 
And,  ghostlike,  down  the  valley  rise 

Old  Guadalupe's  towers. 

La  tierra  caliente  stands 

In  sandals  wrought  of  bloom,  — 

A  red-lipped  queen  who,  smiling,  waves 
Her  sceptre  of  perfume. 


86  TO  THE  MEXICAN  EXILES. 

And  from  the  palm  and  mango  groves, 

The  sweet  Cenzontle's  throat 
Pours  out  its  melody  to  meet 

The  wild  Jilguero's  note. 

There  rise  the  shining  palace  walls, 

The  convent's  ancient  dome  ; 
The  hills,  the  groves,  the  roofs,  the  shrines, 

Of  sweet  and  sacred  home  ! 
What  can  our  lakes,  our  streams,  our  plains, 

Fair  though  they  be,  bestow 
On  hearts  that  mourn  the  mountain  peaks, 

The  vales  of  Mexico  ? 

The  billow}'  gulf  that  rolls  between 

Brings  on  its  scrolled  waves 
No  kisses  from  the  lips  ye  love, 

No  voices  of  your  braves  ! 
Alas !  no  balm  have  we  to  heal 

The  anguish  of  regret ; 
And  here  no  Lethe  rolls  to  teach 

The  exile  to  forget. 

But  thought,  the  soul's  fair  carrier-dove, 

With  free  and  undipped  wing, 
Sent  from  the  drifting  ark  of  life, 

Back  o'er  the  seas  will  bring 
Some  treasure  of  the  olden  time, 

Some  flower  that  won  your  praise 
Green  memories  of  the  land  ye  love, 

And  dreams  of  happier  days. 


YOUR  LETTER. 


T  KISSED  your  letter  when  it  came, 

I  clasped  it  in  my  throbbing  palms  ; 
Tumultuous  joy-storms  swept  my  heart 
From  out  its  olden  summer  calms. 

The  lily  nodded  to  the  rose, 

The  rose  in  richer  hues  seemed  clad ; 

The  skies  put  on  a  tenderer  blue,  — 
All  things  seemed  glad  that  I  was  glad. 

I  broke  in  haste  the  shining  seal, 

With  quaint  devices  deftly  wrought,  — 

The  waxen  lock  that  kept  for  me 

Words  woven  in  the  loom  of  thought. 

"  That  royal  loom  !  "  I,  smiling,  said  ; 

"  Whence  comes  this  texture,  warp,  and  woof, 
Each  glowing,  scintillating  thread, 

Of  Love's  Golcondian  wealth  a  proof?  " 


88  YOUR  LETTER. 

I  read ;  the  glittering  words  were  there,  — 
Pearls,  rubies,  emeralds  of  thought, 

Bright  sapphire  links,  and  diamond  drops,  — 
But  where,  oh !  where  the  love  I  sought? 

Was  this  the  letter  I  had  prized, 
And  blessed  for  falling  to  my  lot? 

True,  much  I  found,  but  more  I  missed ; 
For  what  was  all  where  love  was  not? 


AT  THE  CHANDELEUR  ISLANDS. 


OCALLOP,  and  conch,  and  salt  sea  sand, 
**-*     A  blue  and  boundless  sky ; 
White  on  his  arm  a  little  shy  hand, 
Holding  his  destiny. 


The  cool  wax-myrtle's  mellow  green, 

Brightening  the  marshy  isles, 
Sweet  whispers  softly  uttered  between 

A  maiden's  merry  smiles. 

An  earnest  man,  a  laughing  girl, 

A  stretch  of  sea-girt  beach  ; 
A  fluttering  ribbon,  a  wind-tossed  curl, 

A  moment's  trembling  speech. 

A  fair  face  toward  the  far  lagoon, 

A  rose-red  girlish  mouth  ; 
The  lighthouse  tower  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 

The  warm  wind  from  the  south. 


90  AT  THE  CHANDELffUR  ISLANDS. 

The  rise  and  dip  of  dancing  prows, 
A  murmured  "  We  must  part ;  " 

The  pencilled  curve  of  two  arching  brows, 
A  strong  man's  broken  heart. 


Scallop,  and  conch,  and  salt  sea  sand. 

A  drift  of  cloudy  sky, 
The  sob  of  waves  on  the  shining  strand, 

Ocean's  immensity ! 

A  heron  white  on  the  lone  lagoon, 

Foam  on  the  billow's  crest ; 
The  lighthouse  tower  pale  under  the  moon, 

The  wild  wind  from  the  west. 

The  black  sea-chestnut  billow-strewn 

Along  the  lonely  strand  ; 
A  stony  heart,  whose  tares  were  sown 

By  some  one's  false  white  hand. 

The  lightman's  lamp,  a  spark  of  gloom 

Amidst  the  gloomy  dark  ; 
A  soul  that  drifts  to  its  desolate  doom, 

A  wrecked,  dismantled  bark. 


Scallop,  and  conch,  and  salt  sea  sand, 

A  drift  of  cloudy  sky, 
The  sob  of  waves  on  the  shining  strand, 

Ocean's  immensit}- ! 


HE  AND   SHE. 


OHE  said,  "  Take  thou  this  rose,  and  let  it  be 
^  For  just  one  night  a  memory  of  me  ; 


"  From  out  its  petals  if  a  dew-drop  fall, 
Some  tear  I  've  shed  with  thee  let  it  recall. 

"  Read  in  its  hues,  caught  from  the  perfect  weather, 
Some  perfect  joy  we  two  have  shared  together. 

"  If  from  its  depths  rich  odors  sudden  start, 
Let  them  remind  thee  of  a  woman's  heart, 

"  Which  learned,  in  opening  its  depths  to  thee, 
That  love  is  life's  most  near  necessity." 

He  said,  "  The  rose  thou  offerest  me  I  take, 
To  cherish  ever  for  the  giver's  sake  ! 

"  To  me  a  simple  flower  it  cannot  seem, 
Nor  vagrant  blossom  of  a  summer  dream  ; 


92  HE  AND  SHE. 

"  For  all  its  precious  petals  make  the  sum 
Of  days  bygone,  of  golden  days  to  come. 

"  When  its  sweet  beauty  wins  my  tender  praise, 
Thy  sweeter  beauty  will  come  back  always. 

"  Forever  and  forever  it  shall  sleep, 
Where  I  my  purest,  holiest  treasures  keep." 

•  •  •  •  • 

They  parted  then.     She  went  and  stood  next  day 
Just  where  she  gave  her  little  rose  away. 

Her  soul  was  filled  with  many  a  tender  thought, 
His  sweet  acceptance  of  the  flower  had  brought. 

She  glanced  about  the  half-disordered  room, 
Toward  its  planes  of  light,  its  nooks  of  gloom  ; 

Then  at  some  trifles  idly  thrown  away, 

Like  toys  thrown  down  by  children  tired  of  play ; 

A  crumpled  thing,  its  stainless  beauty  fled, 
There,  in  their  midst,  her  little  rose  lay  dead  ! 


DAME  AILSIE. 


"    A    PENNY  for  your  thought,"  I  smiling  said, 

And  touched  with  reverent  hand  Dame  Ailsie's 

head. 

Pale,  proud  Dame  Ailsie,  with  the  snow-white  hair, 
And  face  whose  beauty  still  shines  through  its  care. 
New  sorrows  scarce  can  ever  touch  her  more  ; 
The  barks  that  held  her  treasures  by  the  shore 
Have  all  put  out,  and  left  her  on  life's  sands, 
A  lonely  mourner  wringing  empty  hands. 

Her  neighborship  to  me  is  very  dear ; 
And  often,  on  the  winding  stair  of  stone 
That  from  the  wide  banquette  leads  to  my  door, 
Of,  but  not  in,  the  city's  restless  roar, 
We  meet,  and  hold  our  woman  chats  alone. 
Or,  as  the  balmy  southern  eve  draws  near, 
On  the  quaint  balcony,  that  hangs  below 
My  dormer  windows  and  the  ancient  eaves 
Where  little  waifs  of  weeds  and  grasses  grow, 
And  where  his  mossy  monogram  Time  weaves 


94  DAME  AILSIE. 

About  the  old  brick  chimneys,  as  to  stay 

The  gnawing  tooth  of  pitiless  decay, 

We  draw  our  bamboo  chairs,  and,  side  by  side, 

Note  the  air-beating  bat  with  sudden  flight 

From  his  day  dungeon  swiftly  hastening 

To  quilt  the  widths  of  space  with  nervous  wing ; 

Or  watch  the  gray  ship  Dusk  serenely  glide 

Across  the  fading  sunset's  outer  bars 

Into  the  blue  and  broadening  gulf  of  night, 

To  drop  her  anchors  in  a  sea  of  stars. 

The  rushing  wheels  of  time  with  talk  we  clog, 

As  up  behind  the  gray  old  sj^nagogue 

Which  rears  its  Moorish  towers  just  o'er  the  way, 

The  moon  from  far  beyond  the  river  rises, 

And  with  strange  splendor  all  the  town  surprises  ; 

Across  the  uneven  roofs,  that  intervene 

'Twixt  us  and  distant  features  of  the  scene, 

We  watch  it  with  a  wand  of  silent  fire 

Smite  into  radiance  yon  tapering  spire, 

While  still  beyond  its  opulent  rays  endower 

The  matchless  grandeur  of  St.  Patrick's  tower. 

Our  eyes  are  earnest  lovers  of  the  skies. 

Their  clouds,  their  stars,  their  sunset  and  sunrise, 

Their  constant  march  of  change,  their  light,  their  shade, 

Their  dusk  of  storms,  their  sunbursts  ;  their  dismayed 

Blue  acres  of  the  air-farms,  overflowed 

With  silent  cataracts  of  rended  cloud ; 


DAME  AILSIE.  95 

Their  caverns  where  the  thunder-steeds  they  keep, 

And  lightning  whips  to  lash  them  if  they  sleep  ; 

The  n^-stic  gardens  of  the  solemn  night, 

Sown  dark  miles  deep  with  shining  seeds  of  light ; 

The  constellations,  as  they  sink  and  rise,  — 

Those  untranslated  gospels  of  the  skies  ; 

The  constant  dying  and  the  constant  birth 

Of  variable  things  above  the  earth,  — 

All  these  our  eyes  delighted  watch  ;  and  oft 

As  we  together  turn  our  eyes  aloft, 

Searching  the  fathomless  wonders  of  the  dark 

That  enter  into  Night's  stupendous  ark, 

All  petty,  worldly  cares  sink  out  of  sight, 

And  leave  us  lonely  with  the  Infinite. 

Thus  had  we  sat  now  for  uncounted  time, 
Watching  the  sk3*-scape,  mooned,  starred,  and  sublime, 
Which  stretched  be3'ond  the  city  roofs  away, 
Pierced  by  its  towers,  and  spires,  and  gables  gray, 
When  from  Dame  Ailsie's  lip  a  sigh  I  caught, 
And  softty  said,  "  A  penny  for  your  thought." 
Upon  her  gentle  hand  she  leaned  her  head, 
Looked  far  away,  then  answered  me  and  said : 

"  I  call  to  mind  to-night  a  girl  who  died, — 
Ah  me  !  what  weary,  weary  years  ago. 
How  I  did  pity  her,  and  how  I  cried 
Above  her  placid  and  encofflned  brow  ! 
I  laid  my  fingers  on  the  chilled,  fair  hair, 
Which  round  her  laughing  face  had  loved  to  curl, 


96  DAME  AILSIE. 

And,  weeping,  wailing,  and  rebelling  there 

Above  the  shrouded  bosom  of  the  girl, 

With  aching  heart,  I  cried  aloud,  '  Oh,  why 

Should  one  so  beautiful,  so  happy,  die? 

Life  is  so  rich,  so  bountiful  a  thing, 

So  full  of  flowers  to  pluck,  of  songs  to  sing, 

Of  joy  and  health,  of  beauty  and  ef  youth, 

Of  promise  and  fulfilment,  love  and  truth,  — 

Why  was  she  robbed  of  all?    Oh,  why  not  spared 

For  yet  a  little  while  ? ' 

"  Even  as  I  dared 

To  murmur  thus,  her  gravestone  rose  between 
My  anguished  face,  her  coffined  form  serene, 
Bearing  the  sculpture  '  DIED  AT  SEVENTEEN  ! ' 

"  Oh,  what  a  piteous  thing  it  seemed  to  me, 
Her  death  and  burial  with  life's  spring  so  green ! 
How  cruel  the  relentless,  stern  decree 
Summed  in  those  few  words,  '  Died  at  seventeen  ! ' 

"  I  too  was  young.     With  white,  unwounded  feet 
I  stood  in  life's  fresh  lanes,  and  saw  the  sweet, 
Enticing  radiance  by  the  future  thrown 
About  the  hill-tops  of  the  Yet  Unknown. 
My  hands  were  full  of  j'outh's  unfaded  flowers, 
My  lips  were  touching  its  tintasted  hours  ; 
Toward  happy  fields  of  rose  and  mignonette 
Mj*  bounding  heart  and  hopeful  eyes  were  set ; 
Therefore  I  cried  aloud,  with  faltering  tongue, 
*  O  God !  how  sad  a  thing  to  die  so  }'oung ! ' 


DAME  AILSIE.  97 

"  Ah,  that  was  long  years  since.     Sunshine  and  snow 

Have  fallen  and  faded  many  a  time,  I  know, 

Where  once  I  wept  above  that  slender  grave, 

And  pitied  her  who  unto  dust  we  gave. 

But  now,  to-night,  with  something  that 's  akin 

To  envy,  comes  my  heart's  lone  doors  within 

The  memory  of  that  slim,  green  grave  afar, 

Gemmed  by  the  daisies,  greened  with  gentle  rain, 

Free  from  life's  fire,  or  fret,  or  passion's  pain  ; 

And,  as  dumb  Thought,  a  lonety  pilgrim,  goes 

O'er  blighted  fields  of  mignonette  and  rose, 

Afar,  far  off  that  dead  girl's  face  appears  : 

I  see  it  without  sorrow,  without  tears, 

And  sigh,  while  gazing  on  the  scarred  Between, 

*  O  God  !  that  I  had  died  at  seventeen ! '" 


BY  THE   BIRD-CAGE. 


t 

OEEDS  for  thy  banquet,  my  warbler, 

^    Flowers  for  thy  palace  of  song  — 
Hush  now ;  my  senses  are  weary, 

Thou  hast  sung  loudly  and  long ! 
Into  my  presence  a  vision 

Came  with  thy  last  thrilling  note, 
Which,  like  a  cadence  elysian, 

Soared  from  thy  marvellous  throat. 


Oh !  what  I  heard  as  it  floated, 

Filtering  its  sweetness  through  sweets, 
Born  of  the  blooms  of  the  orange 

Fringing  these  narrow  old  streets. 
Oh !  what  I  felt  as  its  sifted 

Tenderness  fell  through  the  flowers,  — 
How  my  soul  drifted  and  drifted 

Back  through  life's  beautiful  hours  ! 


BY  THE  BIRD-CAGE.  99 

Only  the  notes  of  a  bird-song, 

Only  a  blossom  sweet-scented ; 
Only  a  touch  unforgotten, 

Only  a  moment  repented  ; 
Only  a  shallop  that  grounded, 

Where  the  deceiving  sands  lay 
Hidden,  and  still,  and  unsounded, 

Out  in  life's  beautiful  bay ! 


From  its  wreck,  lone  and  deserted, 

Just  now  a  weird  Presence  stole, 
And  with  its  fragile  hand  sounded 

All  the  sad  bells  of  my  soul. 
I,  midst  their  chiming  and  flowing, 

Found  the  lost  key  to  my  fate  : 
Oh  !  anguish,  shaped  out  of  knowing, 

When  knowledge  cometh  too  late ! 


Led  by  those  little  white  fingers, 

Backward  I  'm  borne  to  that  shore 
Where  the  dark  waters  are  breaking 

Of  the  wild  sea  NEVERMORE. 
'Gainst  my  sad  heart  they  are  beating, 

With  their  spray  are  mine  e}'es  wet  — 
Hear  them  repeating,  repeating, 

All  that  I  never  forget ! 


100  BY  THE  BIRD-CAGE. 

Once  more  I  'm  dreamily  bending 

Over  some  intricate  page  ; 
Sweetly  a  young  voice  is  mingled 

With  thine,  O  bird  in  the  cage  ! 
I  see  the  mystical  pages 

Swept  by  a  maiden's  bright  curl ; 
I  read  the  lore  of  the  sages, 

Read  not  the  heart  of  a  girl ! 


Curtains  of  white  lace  are  swa}'ing, 

Wanders  the  wind  up  and  down ; 
She  by  a  window  is  sewing, 

In  the  old  French  part  of  town  ; 
Beams  of  the  sunlight  are  golden, 

Pomegranate  blossoms  burn  red  ; 
Dusky  braids,  many  times  folden, 

Crowning  the  young  Creole  head. 


Up  from  the  gardens  below  us 

Odors  of  orange-buds  creep ; 
Softly  the  winds  from  the  river 

Over  the  balcony  sweep  ; 
Pigeons  are  dreamily  cooing 

On  the  tiled  roof  o'er  the  way  ; 
Pauses  the  little  hand,  sewing, 

Over  the  volume  to  stray, 


BY  THE  BIRD-CAGE.  101 

Whence  I  read  —  prone  there  before  her, 

Under  the  shade  of  the  vine  — 
Of  love,  and  all  the  sweet  loving 

I  deem  can  never  be  mine. 
*'  Kiss  me  ! "  I  cry,  "  what  is  surer 

Than  fate  which  biddeth  me  fly  ? 
Kiss  me !  oh,  what  can  be  purer 

Than  kisses  kissing  good-by  ?  " 


Oh  !  little  hand  in  my  own  hand, 

Drooping  and  beautiful  head, 
Eyes  lifted  sad  and  beseeching, 

Words  left  forever  unsaid ! 
Vanish,  O  vision  too  tender ! 

What  was  not  was  not  to  be  ; 
Yet  with  what  ravishing  splendor 

Comes  back  that  moment  to  me ! 


Moment  when  all  my  rich  reading 

Read  not  those  marvellous  eyes ; 
Moment  when  blindfolded  wisdom 

Left  untranslated  those  sighs  ; 
Moment  when  out  of  my  keeping 

Fell  the  one  jewel  divine, 
Out  of  my  idle  reach  sweeping 

Ere  my  heart  told  me  't  was  mine. 


102  BY  THE  BIRD-CAGE. 

Dew  of  a  kiss  ever  cherished, 

Spell  of  a  name  never  breathed ; 
Voice  that  the  scabbard  of  silence 

Now  and  forever  hath  sheathed ! 
Forth  has  my  saddened  thought  hurried  • 

Yonder,  where  cloisters  are  gray ; 
Dusky-haired  was  the  young  novice 

Aged  nuns  buried  to-day. 


OLGA. 


stein-deep  in  her  red-gold  hair, 
A  rose  trails  over  her  shoulder  white, 
As,  softly  robed  and  in  gems  bedight, 
She  sits  the  fairest  where  all  are  fair, 
With  wondrous  eyes  that  seem  everywhere 
Save  turned  to  the  stage  and  the  players  there. 

Those  eyes,  to  me,  are  the  strangest  things ! 
Night-blue ;  no,  amber ;  no,  they  are  green 
As  cool  sea-deeps  in  a  sunflash  seen. 

And  what  a  subtile,  sweet  perfume  clings 

To  her  garments  when  she  stirs,  and  flings 

About  her  invisible  curtainings  ! 

There,  in  the  box  with  the  gilded  door  — 
The  first  proscenium-box  at  the  right  — 
The  prettiest  woman  by  far  in  sight  1 
Her  great,  calm  eyes  roam  the  boxes  o'er, 
Roam,  and  return,  and  wander  once  more, 
While  forty  musicians  are  playing  "  the  score." 


104  OLGA. 

One  arm  on  the  velvet  rail  she  leans, 

And  that  slow  smile  to  her  lip  which  comes 
Could  make  a  halo  for  martyrdoms. 

Who  can  say  what  its  mystery  means  ? 

Ah,  well,  at  the  play  there  are  scenes  and  scenes, 

And  a  curtain  which  nothing  tangible  screens ! 


Her  perfect  face  not  a  face  salutes 
Of  all  the  multitude  turned  unto  her ; 
And  men  admire,  and  women  demur, 
And  this  the  homage  of  that  refutes, 
While  grumble  the  drums  and  whistle  the  flutes 
In  the  "  Hunters'  Chorus  "  of  Der  Freyschiltz. 


Over  her  shoulder  the  red  rose  trails, 
Rises  and  falls  in  the  opaline  light 
Of  lamps  that  seem  only  burnt  to-night 
For  that  red  rose  and  the  perfume  veils, 
And  the  cheek  that  neither  reddens  nor  pales 
Though  a  thousand  eyes  its  beauty  assails. 


There 's  that  about  her  to  make  one  weep, 
All  perfect  and  peerless  though  she  seems, 
As  some  one  seen  in  those  sweet,  strange  dreams 
That  come  to  a  shining  summer  night's  deep, 
Unbroken,  and  3'et  half-conscious  sleep, 
When  through  other  planets  we  seem  to  sweep. 


OLGA.  105 

The  players  play,  and  the  great  house  cheers ; 
That  rose,  it  is  red  on  its  altar  white, 
Like  blood  on  the  wing  of  an  angel  bright. 

And  why  does  't  seem,  as  the  dimness  clears, 

That  the  necklace  of  pearls  her  young  throat  wears 

Is  only  a  necklace  of  frozen  tears  ? 


OLD  AGE  TO   TIME. 


T  TO  !  Warder,  who  sitteth  at  life's  great  gates, 

And  opeth  the  doors  of  death, 
Here 's  a  health  to  thee  in  an  empty  heart, 
With  a  mortal's  failing  breath ! 

I  have  marched  the  march,  and  the  day  is  done, 

Life's  rusty  weapons  I  stack ; 
And  close  to  the  embers  I  lay  me  down 

Of  life's  last  bivouac. 

Nay,  guardian  gray,  with  skeleton  hands, 

In  vain  wilt  thou  search  m}'  years ; 
Of  all  they  were  worth  thou  hast  robbed  them  once, 

Ambition,  love,  hope,  and  tears ! 

One  after  one  have  I  given  to  thee 
Each  trinket,  treasure,  and  dower,  — 

The  flame  of  desire,  the  satiate  sigh, 
The  bud  and  the  faded  flower ; 


OLD  AGE  TO  TIME.  107 

With  the  crimson  lip  and  the  brow  divine 

Of  Beauty  in  beauty's  prime, 
And  the  laugh  that  leaped  from  a  careless  heart, 

The  faith  that  made  love  sublime. 

All  passion-wreathed  into  thy  hands  was  thrown 

The  golden  bowl  of  my  youth  ; 
And  thy  cynic  lip  sipped  and  soured  the  wine 

In  the  sacred  vase  of  Truth. 

In  the  vanished  valleys  what  now  remains  ? 

The  vintage  is  plucked  and  pressed, 
The  songs  are  hushed,  and  the  singers  are  dead, 

The  vintagers  all  at  rest. 

Thy  sickle  hath  scarred  all  my  noblest  years, 

The  root  of  my  days  is  cleft. 
Ho  !  thou  who  holdeth  so  much  of  my  life, 

I  pledge  thee  in  what  is  left ! 

To  thee,  who  sitteth  at  life's  great  gates 

And  opeth  the  doors  of  death, 
Here 's  to  thee,  to  thee,  in  an  empty  heart, 

With  a  mortal's  failing  breath  ! 


RIME. 


A  FTER  the  last  night's  frost 

The  autumn  leaves  are  crisper ; 
And  from  the  frigid  north 

There  comes  a  wintry  whisper. 
Over  the  icy  earth 

Is  spread  a  glittering  splendor ; 
But  from  its  frozen  heart 

No  sweet  thing  comes,  nor  tender. 

After  the  chilling  frost 

Of  our  last  cruel  parting, 
Out  of  my  frozen  heart 

No  tender  thought  is  starting. 
Into  my  icy  life 

Dead  leaves  fall  crisp  and  crisper ; 
And  from  m}T  future  comes 

A  lone  and  wintry  whisper. 


THE  EQUINOX. 


A  CROSS  the  sky,  by  unseen  pilots  steered, 

The  white  ships  speed  whose  sails  are  spun  of  air ; 
Across  the  land,  with  whistle  wild  and  weird, 
The  gypsy  wind  is  wandering  everywhere. 

From  out  the  sable  scabbard  of  the  clouds 

The  lightning  leaps,  and  stabs  the  horrent  sky  ; 

While  crashing  storm-guns  thunder  from  the  shrouds 
Of  misty  fleets,  which,  battling,  float  on  high. 

King  Ocean  sends  a  million  white-plumed  knights 

At  midnight  to  assault  the  iron  shore  ; 
With  pallid  lips  they  hear  the  rocky  heights 

Proclaim,  "  Thus  far,  but  farther,  nevermore  ! " 

At  every  door  a  stranger  I  descry  ; 

Wet,  cold,  and  pale,  imperiously  he  knocks : 
He  is  a  guest  whom  no  one  may  deny, 

Beneath  whose  tread  our  trembling  planet  rocks,  — 

THE  SWART  KING  EQUINOX. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 


E  day  was  hot,  and  we  sat  in  the  tent, — 
Above  us  a  live-oak's  branches*bent, 
And  wild  birds  warbled  their  innocent  loves 
In  the  odorous  depths  of  orange-groves. 

No  fold  in  the  flag  at  the  door  was  stirred  ; 
It  hung  in  the  heat  like  some  bright,  dead  bird, 
And  the  air  was  so  still  you  could  hear  the  tramp 
Of  the  pacing  sentry  all  over  the  camp. 

It  seems,  sometimes,  that  I  yet  can  hear 
The  cardinal-bird  whistle  loud  and  clear, 
And  the  shrill,  brief  note  of  the  nonpareil, 
From  behind  the  gum-tree's  mossy  veil, 

And  the  startling  buzz  of  the  dragon-flies, 
And  the  bold  cicada's  sudden  cries, 
And  the  rush  by  some  sinuous  serpent  made, 
'Neath  the  rank  palmetto's  jagged  shade, 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  Ill 

While  the  palpitant  lizard  climbs  the  seams 
Of  our  shining  tent  in  the  hot  sunbeams, 
And  the  jest  and  laugh  go  from  mouth  to  mouth 
In  our  idle  camp  there  away  down  South. 

'T  was  our  Colonel's  tent,  and  some  of  us  boys 

Were  plaj-ing  that  day  at  euchre ; 
With  a  deal  of  good-natured  soldierly  noise, 

Winning  or  losing  our  lucre. 

The  Colonel  looked  on ;  he  never  played, 

But  sometimes  beguiled  an  hour 
B}T  watching  the  cut  of  heart  or  spade, 

Or  sudden  turn  of  a  "  bower." 

About  this  man  a  mystery  hung ; 

His  histor3r's  hidden  links 
Were  as  hard  to  read  as  riddles  that  sprung 

Of  old  from  the  Theban  sphinx. 

Reserved  and  cold  he  was  called  by  some, 

Though  ever  the  warm  abettor 
Of  right ;  but  he  ne'er  named  friends  or  home, 

And  never  received  a  letter. 

At  the  first  call  of  our  startled  land 

He  joined  us  Illinois  Yanks, 
And  rose  to  his  present  high  command 

Out  of  the  heart  of  the  ranks. 


112  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

A  braver  rider  ne'er  held  a  rein, 
A  bolder^  ne'er  wore  a  spur ; 

Yet,  for  a  comrade  *wrung  with  pain, 
No  touch  could  be  tenderer. 

• 

His  han.d  was  soft  as  a  gentle  girl's, 
His  smile  had  a  rare,  sweet  grace, 

And  a  shining  mass  of  soft  black  curls 
Framed  in  his  pale  dark  face. 

And  straight  he  was  as  an  Indian's  arrow, 
And  lithe  as  an  Indian's  bow ; 

And  not  a  thought  of  his  soul  was  narrow 
For  either  a  friend  or  a  foe. 

E'er  first  and  foremost  in  the  fight 
.  His  tall  form  rose  afar, 
Like  one  transfigured  by  the  might 
And  majesty  of  war ! 

His  brave,  black  eyes  like  scimitars 
I  've  seen  flash  out  in  battle, 

And  blaze  like  God-ignited  stars, 
Amid  the  roar  and  rattle 

Of  falling  shot  and  bursting  shell, 

The  war-cloud's  leaden  rain, 
And  all  the  mimicry  of  hell 
That  paints  the  battle-plain. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  113 

But,  though  he  farthest  rode  of  all, 

And  dared  what  few  would-dare, 
He  passed  unscathed  by  blade,  or  ball, 

Or  shot,  or  shell,  or  snare, 

As  though  he  bore  a  charmed  life, 

This  man  who  claimed  no  tie, 
No  friend,  no  sweetheart,  child  or  wife, 

To  mourn  him  should  he  die. 

Well-educated,  brave,  well-bred, 
Handsome,  high-toned,  and  3'oung, 

Speaking  four  languages,  'f  was  said,' 
Besides  his  mother-tongue,  — 

* 

This  our  Colonel,  Gustave  Dupre, 

So  nonchalantly  bent 
Above  our  game  of  cards  that  day, 

Within  his  scntried  tent ; 

When  on  the  sod  we  heard  a  foot 
Crush  down  the  verdure  vernal,  — 

A  corporal  with  brief  salute 

Said,  "  Some  one  to  see  you,  Colonel." 

We  all  looked  up,  paused  in  our  game  ; 
There  in  the  tent  door's  peaked  frame 
A  dusky  woman,  straight  and  tall, 
Stood  smiling  down  upon  us  all. 


114  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

She  was  a  stranger ;  whence  she  came 
None  of  us  knew,  none  knew  her  name ; 
But  age  and  weakness,  sex  and  port, 
Appealed  to  every  soldier's  heart. 

"  Come  in,  auntie,"  otlr  Colonel  said, 
"  The  sun  beats  hot  upon  }'our  head. 
Here  is  a  seat.  —  No,  boys  ;  don't  go,  — 
Be  sure  her  mission  all  may  know." 

We  boys  sat  where  our  game  had  stopped, 
Our  cards  upon  the  table  dropped ; 
Indifferent,  careless,  indolent, 
We  watched  the  stranger  in  the  tent. 

* 

Erect,  and  with  attentive  glance, 
Half  question  and  half  nonchalance, 
With  folded  arms  across  his  breast, 
The  Colonel  stood  beside  his  guest. 

She  took  the  seat,  and  straightened  down 
The  folds  in  her  blue  cotton  gown, 
And  rearranged,  with  wrinkled  hands, 
Her  gingham  turban's  brilliant  bands  ; 

Then  felt  the  pins,  with  nervous  quest, 
That  held  the  kerchief  across  her  breast, 
And  drew  her  tired  feet,  soiled  and  bare, 
From  sight  beneath  the  low  camp-chair. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  115 

Her  faded  face  was  swart,  not  black, 
And  marred  by  many  a  trouble-track. 
For  Care,  the  toiler,  o'er  her  brow 
Had  driven  a  sharp,  incisive  plough, 
Whose  cruel  furrows,  deep  and  murk, 
Told  he  'd  not  idled  at  his  work. 

Within  her  cheeks  twin  hollows  lay 
Wrecks  of  a  beauty  passed  awaj*. 
The  ruined  dimple,  the  stranded  blush, 
Wont  in  its  savage  youth  to  rush 
From  cheek  to  brow,  unchecked,  untamed, 

Unclouded,  jo3'ous,  and  unshamed, 

• 

Now  lay  there  dead,  forgot,  unnamed ; 

Whilst  ashen  tints  of  grief  and  gloom, 

With  which  Time  paints  out  all  the  bloom, 

All  brightness,  freshness,  youth,  and  grace, 

At  last  from  every  woman's  face, 

LajT,  sombring  aught  that  had  been  fair 

Of  rounded  grace  or  color  there. 

Yet  in  her  dark  and  liquid  eye 

Shone  out  that  solemn  depth  of  power 

To  suffer  dumbly,  patiently, 

Which  is  a  woman's  special  dower. 

This  majesty  of  self  subdued, 

The  lowly  creature's  brow  imbued 

With  something  of  a  Christian  grace 

That  had  become  a  lovelier  face. 

She  spoke,  with  glance  and  mien  abject, 

And  in  the  common  dialect 


116  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

That  marked  the  plain  plantation  "  hands," 
Well  known  in  cane  and  cotton  lands. 
Rude  were  her  words,  but  sweet  her  tone, 
As  am'  high-born  dame  would  own, 
And  oft  some  quaint  old  Creole  phrase, 
Or  gentle  speech  of  gentler  da3-s, 
The  curious  listener  could  detect 
Mixed  with  her  negro  dialect. 


"  Scuse  me,  Gunnel,  I  troubles  you,  shore, 
But,  dear  young  massa,  Ise  ole  and  pore, 
An'  de  quiver  of  life,  once  full  of  years, 
Holds  nuffin  now  but  a  few  salt  tears  ; 
A  little  more  toil  up  life's  rough  road, 
Den  dese  ole  shoulders  '11  drop  dere  load. 


"  Ise  come,  as  it 's  been  my  habit  to  come 
Wherever  Ise  heerd  a  Yankee  drum, 
To  ax  if  to  your  knowledge  dere  's  been, 
Froo  out  de  ranks  of  de  Lincum  men, 
A  boy  of  mine.     He  went  to  de  Norf 
When  my  ole  massa,  bress  us,  was  worf 
Sich  heaps  of  Ian'  an'  cane  an'  money, 
As  neber,  I  specs,  you  dreamed  of,  hone}'. 
Dis  bo}r  of  mine,  he  was  strong  an'  peart, 
An  't  'peared  to  me  he  could  n't  be  sceart 
"By  eber  a  look,  or  a  word,  or  a  sound : 
Not  even  de  bay  of  de  fierce  bloodhound. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  117 

Mars'  Gunnel,  I  nussed  dat  boy  of  mine 

Froo  de  moonlight  nights  an'  de  hot  sunshine, 

An'  my  heart  was  neber  dat  weighted  down 

It  could  n't  take  him  dar  all  my  own, 

An'  feel  dar  was  food  an'  light  an'  rest 

In  holdin'  dat  little  one  close  to  my  breast." 

She  paused,  and  wiped  with  homely  grace 
The  hot  tears  from  her  troubled  face. 

Said  the  Colonel,  "  When  did  he  go  away?" 

She  answered,  "  I  can't  now  'zactly  say,  — 

Dat  is,  jes  de  year,  mo  pas  connais  ; 

But,  near  as  I  now  kin  recolleck, 

He  'd  jes  about  turned  seven,  I  'speck. 

I  could  n't  read,  an'  he  could  n't  write, 

An'  Ise  laid  awake  a  many  a  night 

A  prayin'  an'  praj'in'  unto  de  Lord 

Dat  chile  of  mine  would  on'y  sen'  word 

Where  he  was  gone  to,  or  where  he  was  gwine ; 

But,  bress  }*ou,  dar  neber  cum  word  nor  line  ; 

An'  eber  sence  dis  yere  war  broke  out, 

It 's  seemed  to  me,  if  I  tried,  I  mought 

Diskiver  a  clue  to  dat  chile  of  mine 

From  some  one  'noder  from  'cross  de  line. 

Kase,  brave  as  he  was,  when  de  war  begun 

'T  was  in  him  to  jine  it  de  fustest  one. 

So  Ise  sarched  an'  sarched  under  ebery  rag 

Dat  Ise  seen  afloat  of  de  Lincum  flag, 


118  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

A  hopin'  an'  hopin'  dese  pore  ole  eyes 
Mought  see  him  jes  once  afore  dey  dies, 
Dat  dese  ole  arms  mought  hold  him  yet, 
Afore  de  comin'  of  life's  sunset, 
An'  my  heart  keeps  longin'  to  find  his  lub, 
Just  as  de  wild  beast  longs  for  her  cub." 

11  Why  did  he  leave  you?"  the  Colonel  said, 
"  Sold,  lost,  or  run  away  instead?" 

The  old  mulattress  dropped  her  face, 

With  the  humble  air  of  her  humbled  race. 

"Sold?  no!  lost?  no,  nor  run'd  away, — 

'Deed,  sah  !  he  neber  dun  went  astray 

Out  of  his  own  free  will  an'  accord, 

Nor  evil-mindedness,  bress  de  Lord  ! 

No,  no,  Mars'  Gunnel,  my  boy  was  good, 

I  wants  dat  ar  well  understood  ; 

His  heart  was  noble,  —  he  loved  me  true, 

An'  many  's  de  time,  'twixt  me  an'  3-011, 

I  knows  he  's  longed  for  dese  lovin'  arms 

Dat  sheltered  him  once  from  dis  world's  harms  ; 

But,  you  see,  Mars'  Gunnel,  't  was  n't  all  right, 

Mj-  boy  was  handsome,  an'  smart,  an'  —  white  ! 

"  Massa  was  rich,  dere  was  pride  in  my  heart,  — 
I  begged  m}-  boy  mought  be  given  a  start, 
An'  not  be  hand  an'  foot  tied  down, 
A  white-skinned  slave  to  a  white  man's  frown. 


TI1E  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  119 

I  was  j'ounger  den,  an'  purty,  dey  say ; 
Well,  anyhow,  I  had  my  own  way, 
An'  de  boy  was  sent  from  de  ole  plantation 
Somewhere  up  Norf  for  an  edication. 

"  For  days  arter  dat  I  moped  roun'  de  place, 
An'  cried  if  a  chile  looked  up  in  my  face ; 
An'  I  sot  on  de  banks  of  de  old  bayou, 
A  mournin'  an'  mournin'  de  long  nights  froo ; 
For  I  could  n't  somehow  set  my  heart  to  rights, 
An'  it  an'  me  had  some  awful  fights. 

"  I  could  n't  help  wishin'  my  3'oung  one  back, 

For  a  mother  's  a  mother,  sah,  white  or  black ; 

But  I  had  mj'  work,  an'  a  busy  hand 

'Twixt  a  troubled  heart  an'  its  grief  will  stand  ; 

An'  I  learned  to  say,  '  It 's  all  for  de  best ; 

lie  '11  come  back  some  da}*,  de  Lord  be  bressed.' 

"  But  year  arter  year  came  de  cotton  an'  de  cane, 

But  dat  boy  of  mine  cum'd  neber  again  ! 

Den  ole  massa  died,  an'  I  was  alone, 

An'  into  de  hands  of  strangers  thrown, 

An',  somehow,  I  lost,  when  dey  laid  massa  low, 

Ebery  trace  of  dat  chile  I  longed  for  so ! 

"  Den  at  las'  cum  de  signs  of  dis  ycre  war, 
An'  3*ou  Lincum  soldiers  here,  where  }-ou  arc  ; 
An'  I  was  sot  free,  an'  I  made  up  my  mind 
Dat,  livin'  or  dyin',  my  boy  I  'd  find  ; 


120  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

An'  I  'spect  Ise  done  walked  a  hunnerd  mile, 
Barefooted,  a  tryin'  to  fine  dat  chile ! 
Now,  Gunnel,  dat's  why  I  ask  your  consent 
To  jes  look  along  froo  your  regiment, 
An'  see  if  'mongst  your  men  I  can't  fine 
Dat  growed-up  pickaninny  of  mine." 

The  Colonel  had  heard  her  rambling  talk, 

Leaving  his  place  now  and  then  to  walk, 

As  was  his  wont,  up  and  down  the  tent, 

With  folded  arms  and  brow  down-bent. 

Now,  as  she  paused  to  dry  a  tear, 

"  Good  woman,"  he  said,  "  no  such  man  here, 

If  I  know  aught  of  my  regiment ; 

But  look  for  j-ourself,  you  have  my  consent." 

"  I  wants  to  look  for  myself,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  neber  shall  believe  dat  boy  is  dead 
Till  my  pore  body  has  toted  my  soul 
Out  of  de  reach  of  dis  world's  control." 

"  Nay,  nay !  with  you  let  us  hope  not  dead," 
With  kindly  gesture,  the  Colonel  said ; 
"  But  think  for  a  moment  what  time  has  done 
In  the  changing  years  to  change  your  son. 
Just  think  what  a  man  he  now  must  be, 
How  stalwart  and  bearded  ;  it  seems  to  me 
The  changes  that  surely  have  taken  place 
Would  leave  him  a  stranger  before  your  face." 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  121 

"  Not  know  my  chile  !  "  the  negress  said, 

For  the  first  time  lifting  her  lowly  head  ; 

"  Not  know  my  boy,  wheresomeber  he  be, 

If  good  or  wicked,  or  bond  or  free  ? 

Not  know  dat  boy,  de  son  dat  I  bore  ? 

Oh,  Mars'  Gunnel,  }~ou  's  jestin'  shore  ! 

Why,  de  stars  will  drop,  an'  de  moon  be  spiled, 

When  a  mother 's  done  forgot  her  child  ! 

If  my  boy 's  livin'  he 's  twent}*-nine, 

An'  straight  as  de  Lou'siana  pine  ; 

An'  he  ain't  got  much  of  my  cussed  race 

Writ  out,  thank  God !  on  his  brave  3'oung  face. 

Then  he  has  marks  !  "  she  said,  looking  up  : 

u  His  ear  was  bit  by  a  terrier  pup, 

An'  de  leastest  piece  of  it  tore  away, 

An'  I  knows  he  carries  dat  mark  to-day ! 

Den  a  sailor  man,  from  some  furrin  land, 

Pricked  on  the  back  of  my  bo}*'s  right  hand, 

In  right  smart  style,  two  letters  blue, 

And  said  dey  'd  allus  be  good  as  new. 

De  letters  stood  for  his  name,  you  see, 

An'  he  told  me  to  'member  'em,  G  and  D." 


Suddenly  pale  our  Colonel  stood, 
As  if  some  horror  had  bleached  his  blood, 
Whilst  every  one  of  us  seemed  to  feel 
His  own  breast  pierced  with  red-hot  steel ; 
For  there,  on  our  Colonel's  slim  right  hand, 
Bright  and  clear  was  the  livid  brand,  — 
0 


122  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

Bright  and  clear  for  us  all  to  see, 
The  fatal  characters,  G  and  D  ! 

Then  came  the  dawn  of  a  wild  surprise 
Into  the  woman's  dilated  eyes. 
A  swift  change  over  her  features  swept, 
A  sudden  flush  to  her  forehead  leapt,  — 
And  then,  great  God  !  shall  I  e'er  forget? 
One  hand  on  the  Colonel's  epaulette, 
"Whilst  with  the  other  the  clustering  hair 
She  quickly  pushed  from  the  small  left  ear, 
And  there  in  the  delicate  flesh  was  seen 
The  mark  where  the  terrier's  teeth  had  been. 

Burst  from  her  lips  one  appalling  shriek  ! 
She  glared  at  the  Colonel,  but  did  not  speak. 
Just  like  a  tigress  we'd  seen  her  spring 
Up  at  his  breast ;  now,  a  drooping  thing, 
Haggard  and  helpless,  \ve  saw  her  cling 
To  the  shuddering  form  she  seemed  to  sting, 
By  the  slight  touch  of  her  dark  hand  there, 
Into  a  figure  of  mute  despair. 

Like  some  one  suddenl}*  stricken  dumb, 

With  heart  and  veins  and  pulses  numb, 

All  life,  all  sense  a  frozen  flood, 

For  one  brief  space  our  Colonel  stood ; 

But  now  the  strength  came  back  lo  his  grasp  ; 

He  caught  her  throat  in  a  cruel  clasp  ; 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  123 

The  tender  pity  that  lately  shed 

Its  gentle  light  on  his  face  had  fled, 

And  a  stern  white  horror  lay  there  instead. 

"  Unhand  me,  woman  !  "  he  cried,  in  tones 

Less  like  words  than  torturing  groans  ; 

tk  You  lie  !  oh,  fiend !  this  is  false  as  hell ! 

Take  back  the  lie  you.  have  dared  to  tell 

In  this  damned  part  you  have  played  so  well ; 

Take  it  back,  —  I  '11  throttle  you  else,  —  I  say  !  " 

She  only  answered,  "  Gustave  Dupre  !  " 

From  side  to  side  I  saw  him  swerve, 
As  if  each  syllable  struck  a  nerve. 
Down  from  her  throat  his  white  hand  sunk  ; 
He  reeled  like  one  death-struck  or  drunk. 
Upon  his  forehead's  pallid  hue 
Drops  of  agon}'  stood  like  dew. 
With  sudden  frenzy  and  reckless  touch 
He  tore  himself  from  the  woman's  clutch, 
And  then  again,  with  stern  command, 
He  hoarsely  bade  her  beside  him  stand. 
"  You  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  have  heard 
This  woman's  words,  nor  stood  aloof 
Whilst  she  arrayed  each  damning  proof 
Of  her  strange  claim.     My  soul  is  stirred 
To  madness.     What  have  ye  believed? 
I  burn  to  know  myself  deceived,  — 
To  wake,  shake  off  this  fearful  dream, 
This  horrid  plot,  this  hellish  scheme. 


124  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

•  *•'  * 

I  cannot  judge,  —  I  cannot  think,  — 
I  totter  on  the  awful  brink 
Of  horrors  that  accumulate 
Around  this  dark,  undreamed-of  fate. 
Judge  ye  for  me  ;  though  I  do  swear, 
For  yonder  woman  standing  there 
No  heart-throb,  instinct,  new-born  ties 
Of  kindred  feeling,  in  me  rise 
Responsive  to  this  loathsome  claim 
That  fain  would  link  me  to  her  shame ! 
Look  at  us  both,  —  here  as  we  stand ; 
Forget  this  mark,  this  odious  brand  ! 
For  God's  sake,  men,  breathe  out  no  lie, 
Withhold  no  truth,  nor  aught  den}",  — 
Say,  if  in  cheek,  or  lip,  or  brow, 
Here  as  we  stand  before  you  now, 
A  single  trait  alike  you  see 
Betwixt  this  woman  here  and  me. 
Nay,  shrink  not,  flinch  not,  nor  delay ; 
I  do  command !  do  you  obey !  " 


What  need  to  stammer  out  replies? 
He  read  our  answers  in  our  eyes. 
Unlike,  yet  like,  there  stood  the  two, 
Resemblance  growing  on  our  view, 
As,  both  dismayed  and  both  undone, 
The}T  stood,  life's  golden  glow  all  gone, 
Together,  and  yet  so  alone, 
The  stricken  mother  and  her  son. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  125 

« 

He  spoke  :  his  voice  fell  cold  and  clear 

Upon  each  strained,  attentive  ear. 

"  Soldiers,  enough !     In  ever}'  face 

I  read  conviction  of  disgrace. 

Are  ye  my  friends  ?  Then  each  must  know 

The  cruel  blight  of  this  foul  blow. 

Are  ye  my  foes  ?  Then  each  and  all 

Have  in  the  horror  of  my  fall 

Their  vengeance  found,  their  triumph  won, 

To  see  me  here  disgraced,  undone, 

Polluted,  shamed,  a  thing  to  shun, 

A  negro  mother's  bastard  son  ! 


"  Here,  with  my  hand  upon  my  sword, 

I  give  j'ou  my  untarnished  word, 

I  knew  naught  of  my  birth  or  name 

That  shadowed  me  with  taint  or  shame. 

I  swear  this,  and  my  word  is  white, 

Thank  God !  however  in  your  sight 

Polluted  be  the  blood  that  chains 

My  soul  to  these  degraded  veins. 

I  had  ambition,  health,  and  youth, 

But  no  suspicion  of  the  truth. 

The  mj-ster}-  that  about  me  hung 

No  one  unravelled,  and  I  clung 

To  it  in  idle  hours  perchance, 

And  dreamed  some  tender,  bright  romance 

In  coming  time  might  be  unrolled, 

With  my  name  midst  its  honors  scrolled. 


126  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

Therefore  I  vowed  to  make  that  name 
One  that  the  noblest  blood  might  claim 
To  write  upon  the  blazoned  page 
Of  an  unsullied  heritage. 
From  some  unknown,  mysterious  hand 
Gold  flowed  to  aid  each  aim  I  planned ; 
How  hard  I  toiled,  and  what  I  won, 
It  boots  not  now  to  any  one." 

Then  spake  the  woman,  o'er  whose  face 
Conflicting  thoughts  had  seemed  to  chase, 
As  oft,  in  summer,  on  the  plain, 
Shadows  chase  shadows  o'er  the  grain. 
Her  eyes,  from  which  the  tears  had  gushed 
When  first  conviction  o'er  her  rushed, 
Now  glittered  steady,  bright,  and  dry, 
Though  wet  was  every  soldier's  eye. 
Upon  her  dusky  cheeks  a  spot 
Of  glowing  red  burned  fierce  and  hot, 
While  on  her  lips,  firm,  cold,  compressed, 
A  subtle  meaning  stood  confessed. 

"  Massa,"  she  said,  and  every  word 

Burned  to  the  brain  of  him  who  heard,  — 

"  Mars'  Gunnel,  Ise  gwine  to  go  awa}% 

I  don't  want  }'ou  to  rue  de  day 

When  fust  I  cum  yer,  a  pore  ole  tramp, 

Disturbin'  de  peace  of  dis  3-er  camp. 

Somehow  or  'noder  Ise  made  a  mistake  ; 

Folks  will  sometimes  when  de  heart 's  fit  to  break. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  127 

'Scuse  me,  —  Ise  giv'  you  a  heap  of  bother ; 
Ole  people  's  stupid  somehow  or  'nother. 
But,  Mars'  Gunnel,  and  ebery  one, 
Better  folks  dan  me  clis  war 's  undone, 
An'  whar  I  cum  from  dey  tink  it 's  dazed 
My  pore  ole  brain,  and  dey  say  Ise  crazed. 


u  Ise  gwine  away  right  now,  —  Ise  tired,  — 

It  is  n't  much  to  which  Ise  'spired ; 

I  jes  thought  if  I  could  fine  my  boy 

Den  life  would  shet  wid  a  sudden  joy. 

Ise  pleased  myself  for  many  a  jTear 

Tinkin'  how,  as  a  man,  dat  boy  'd  appear ; 

An'  many  a  pang  has  my  heart  forsook 

When  I  thought  jes  how  de  chile  mus'  look,  — 

How  tall  he  'd  growed,  and  how  pleased  he  'd  be 

When  I  foun'  him  out,  an'  he  know'd  't  was  me ! 

But,  Mars'  Gunnel,  it 's  plain  an'  clear 

If  I  sarched  foreber  he  'd  not  be  here  ; 

I  don't  see  any  but  what  would  be 

Ten  tousand  times  too  good  for  me,  — 

So  smart  an'  peart,  brave  an'  upright, 

An'  honored  too,  an'  all  so  white  ! 

Ise  gwine  on  huntin'  dat  boy  of  mine, 

Froo  de  moonlight  nights  an'  de  hot  sunshine, 

A  rockin'  my  grief  by  de  ole  bayou, 

And  nussin'  de  dream  dat  neber  comes  true, 

Dat  yet  I  '11  fine  him  once  agen 

In  de  God-blest  ranks  of  de  Lineura  men. 


128  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

Whar  de  gray  moss  swings  on  de  pecan-tree 
Dere  's  a  cabin  yet,  an'  a  place  for  me 
To  rest  in,  when,  a  tired  ole  rover, 
I  knows  dat  de  hunt  for  dat  chile  is  over. 
Jes  for  a  minute,  —  ah,  mon  Dieu ! 
Gunnel  —  }*our  face,  —  but 't  was  n't  true  ! 
No,  — not  wid  de  proud,  an'  great,  an'  brave 
Could  rank  de  son  of  de  pore  ole  slave. 

"  Massa,  Ise  gwine,  —  Ise  slow  to  go,  — 
But  den  Ise  ole  an'  tired,  you  know  ; 
Don't  mine  dese  tears  dat  m}*  face  has  wet, 
A  mother 's  a  mother,  an'  can't  forget, 
Though  her  skin  be  brack  as  de  day  unborn, 
De  baby  dat  once  on  her  heart  was  worn. 
Cunnel,  good-by.     Oh,  let  iny  lips 
Lay  jes  once  'gin  j'our  finger-tips, 
Jes  one  kiss  dar,  — one,  soft  and  sly, 
Unknownst  to  any  one  —  good-by ! 
Ise  gwine  right  now,  —  of  course  you  see, 
Your  hand — dose  letters  was  nuffin  to  me. 
M}*  boy's  —  name  —  was  n't  —    Oh,  my  God  !  " 
Gasping,  smiling,  down  to  the  sod, 
At  the  verjr  feet  of  our  Colonel  brave, 
SlowljT  sank  down  the  poor  old  slave. 

Strong  with  a  strength  we  had  failed  to  know, 
Felled  where  none  of  us  felt  a  blow, 
Great  in  that  grand,  unselfish  pride 
Which  heroes  and  martyrs  hath  glorified, 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  129 

Prone  she  sank  at  our  Colonel's  side  : 

And,  as  she  fell,  her  fading  eyes 

Turned  with  one  yearning,  pleading  gaze, 

Mingled  yet  with  a  glad  surprise, 

Up  to  the  Colonel's  haggard  face  ; 

Then  fell  away  with  that  mute  endeavor 

The  dying  make  to  give  up  forever 

All  that  they  hold  of  dearest  worth, 

Or  sacred  value  upon  the  earth, 

And  turned  to  us,  as  in  the  tent, 

Saddened  and  shocked,  we  o'er  her  bent, 

And,  searching  our  faces  one  by  one, 

Whispered,  "  Your  Gunnel  is  not  my  son  ! " 

With  these  brief  words,  all  glorified 

Her  features  grew,  — once,  twice,  she  sighed, 

Lifted  her  hands,  and  spread  them  o'er 

Her  dusk}-  face,  and  spoke  no  more. 

"  Send  for  the  surgeon !  "  the  Colonel  said  ; 

On  his  own  knee  he  pillowed  her  head. 

The  surgeon  came.     On  the  swarthy  breast 
Slightl}*  his  practised  hand  he  pressed  ; 
Then,  with  a  shake  of  his  sturdy  head, 
"  Boys,"  he  muttered,  "  this  woman  is  dead  ! 
Send  for  a  stretcher,  —  how  came  she  here  ? 
Anything  now  must  serve  for  a  bier. 
There  's  news  afloat :  the  enemy  lie 
Strongly  entrenched,  it  is  said,  hard  b}- ; 
But  of  course  you  know  it ;  there 's  work  ahead : 
Better  make  haste  and  bury  your  dead." 
6*  i 


130  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

Then  with  a  laugh,  and  a  soldier's  jest, 
Unaware  of  what  sore  oppressed 
Every  heart  that  around  him  beat, 
He  turned  away  with  huriying  feet ; 
Calling  back,  as  he  passed  from  sight, 
"  Hot  work  for  us  all  before  midnight." 


Responsive  to  the  careless  word 

So  lightly  said,  so  keenly  heard, 

Swept  through  our  veins  that  martial  fire 

Which  every  soldier  doth  inspire. 

We  half  forgot  what  late  had  been 

In  picturing  the  coming  scene  ; 

And  each  man's  hand  was  on  his  sword, 

And  each  man's  foot  turned  toward  the  door, 

When  one  imploring,  earnest  word 

Caused  ever}*  one  to  halt  once  more. 

The  Colonel  stood  beside  the  dead. 
His  own  cloak  o'er  the  form  was  spread, 
And  o'er  his  head  seemed  to  have  passed 
Years  since  we  looked  upon  him  last. 

"  My  men !  "  he  said,  "  this  doomed  hand 

Bears,  in  its  blue  and  livid  brand, 

The  A'ile  insignia  of  disgrace 

That  marked  my  mother's  lowl}1  race. 

Nay !  do  not  take  its  cruel  stain 

Within  your  honest  grasp  again  ! 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY.  131 

You  will?  then  let  it  e'en  be  so." 

And  as  we  gave  him  one  by  one 

The  clasp  he  would  but  could  not  shun, 

There  came  a  soft  and  tender  glow 

Across  the  pallor  of  his  cheek, 

Which  spoke,  as  never  words  could  speak, 

How  precious  unto  him  had  been 

The  good-will  of  his  fellow-men. 

"  Great  God  !  a  father  does  his  worst 

Who  leaves  his  son  a  blood  accursed  !  " 

At  last  he  said ;  "ah,  worse  than  chains 

The  burden  of  defiled  veins  ! 

But  of  this  thing  enough.     We  hear 

Imperious  battle  drawing  near. 

You  know,  ere  now,  what  fights  I  've  shared, 

You  know  what  dangers  I  have  dared, 

You  know  if  e'er  a  craven  led 

Where  comrades  fell  and  comrades  bled. 

You  know,  if  e'er  where  foes  were  met, 

This  hand  or  sabre  faltered  yet ! 

Remembering  this,  if  for  this  fight 

I  do  renounce  all  rank  or  right,  — 

You  will  forgive  ?    You  will  not  blame 

Nor  whisper  coward  with  my  name  ? 

Soldiers  !  I  cannot  forth  again,  — 

What  good  fate  held  for  me  has  been ; 

My  star  has  sunk,  my  day  is  sped. 

I  will  not  follow  where  I  led ! 

Nor  will  I  meet  the  signs  of  scorn 


132  THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY. 

Sure  in  some  comrade  to  be  born, 

Who  looks  for  honor  or  disgrace 

Only  in  records  of  one's  race. 

These  smitten  hands  resign  all  claim 

To  future  glory,  future  fame. 

Where  is  the  lip  to  name  the  good 

Found  in  a  white  man's  negro  blood? 

Here,  with  this  last  grasp  of  my  hand, 

I  yield  forever  my  command. 

Forth  to  the  fight,  and  fare  ye  well ! 

My  future,  be  it  heaven  or  hell, 

Can  make,  can  mar,  not  yours  —  adieu ! 

Unto  your  country  be  }"e  true ! " 

With  these  last  words,  a  gleam  of  steel 

Met  our  stark  eyes,  —  we  saw  him  reel,  — 

Toward  him  rushed  his  aim  to  thwart. 

Too  late  !  his  own  sword  kissed  his  heart ; 

And  pale  and  dead  before  us  lay 

Our  gallant  Colonel  —  Gustave  Dupre. 

1874. 


THE  BATHER. 


WARM  from  her  waist  her  girdle  she  unwound, 
And  cast  it  down  on  the  insensate  turf; 
Then  copse,  and  cove,  and  deep-secluded  vale 
She  scrutinized  with  keen  though  timid  eyes, 
And  stood  with  ear  intent  to  catch  each  stir 
Of  leaf,  or  twig,  or  bird-wing  rustling  there. 
Her  startled  heart  beat  quicker  even  to  hear 
The  wild  bee  woo  the  blossom  with  a  hymn, 
Or  hidden  insect  break  its  lance  of  sound 
Against  the  obdurate  silence.     Then  she  smiled, 
At  her  own  fears  amused,  and  knew  herself 
God's  only  image  by  that  hidden  pool. 
Then  from  its  bonds  her  wondrous  hair  she  loosed,  — 
Hair  glittering  like  spun  glass,  and  bright  as  though 
Shot  full  of  golden  arrows.     Down  below 
Her  supple  waist  the  soft  and  shimmering  coils 
Rolled  in  their  bright  abundance,  goldener 
Than  was  the  golden  wonder  Jason  sought. 

Her  fair  bands  then,  like  white  doves  in  a  net, 
A  moment  fluttered  mid  the  shining  threads, 
As  with  a  dexterous  touch  she  higher  laid 


134  THE  BATHER. 

The  gleaming  tresses  on  her  shapely  head, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  rudety  amorous  waves. 
Then  from  her  throat  her  light  robe  she  unclasped, 
And  dropped  it  downward,  with  a  blush  that  rose 
The  higher  as  the  garment  lower  fell. 

Then  cast  she  off  the  sandals  from  her  feet, 
And  paused  upon  the  brink  of  that  blue  lake, — 
A  sight  too  fair  for  either  gods  or  men, 
An  Eve  untempted  in  her  Paradise. 

The  waters  into  which  her  young  eyes  looked 

Gave  back  her  image  with  so  true  a  truth, 

She  blushed  to  look,  but  blushing  looked  again  ; 

As  maidens  to  their  mirrors  oft  return 

With  bashful  boldness  once  again  to  gaze 

Upon  the  crystal  page  that  renders  back 

Themselves  unto  themselves,  until  their  e}*cs 

Confess  their  love  for  their  own  loveliness. 

Her  rounded  cheeks,  in  each  of  which  had  grown, 

With  sudden  blossoming,  a  fresh  red  rose, 

She  hid  an  instant  in  her  dimpled  hands  ; 

Then  met  her  pink  palms  up  above  her  head, 

And  whelmed  her  white  shape  in  the  welcoming  wave. 

Around  each  lithesome  limb  the  waters  twined, 

And  with  their  lucent  raiment  robed  her  form ; 

And  as  her  hesitating  bosom  sunk 

To  the  caresses  of  bewildered  waves, 

They  foamy  pearls  from  their  own  foreheads  gave 


THE  BATHER.  135 

For  her  fair  brow,  and  showered  in  her  hair 
The  evanescent  diamonds  of  the  deep. 

Thus  dallying  with  the  circumfluent  tide, 
Her  loveliness  half  hidden,  half  revealed, 
An  Undine  with  a  soul,  she  plunged  and  rose  ; 
Whilst  the  white  graces  of  her  rounded  arms 
She  braided  with  the  blue  of  wandering  waves, 
And  saw  the  shoulders  of  the  billows  yield 
Before  the  even  strokes  of  her  small  hands, 
And  laughed  to  see,  and  held  her  crimson  mouth 
Above  the  crest  of  each  advancing  surge, 
Like  a  red  blossom  pendent  o'er  a  pool, — 
Till,  done  with  the  invigorating  play, 
Once  more  she  gained  the  bank,  and  once  again 
Saw  her  twin  image  in  the  waters  born. 

From  the  translucent  wave  each  beauty  grew 
To  strange  perfection.     Never  statue,  wrought 
By  cunning  art  to  fulness  of  all  grace, 
And  kissed  to  life  by  love,  could  fairer  seem 
Than  she  who  stood  upon  that  grassy  slope 
So  fresh,  so  human,  so  immaculate ! 
Out  from  the  dusk}-  cloisters  of  the  wood 
The  nun-like  winds  stole  with  a  saintly  step, 
And  dried  the  bright  drops  from  her  panting  form, 
As  she  with  hurried  hands  once  more  let  down 
The  golden  drapery  of  her  glorious  hair, 
That  fell  about  her  like  some  royal  cloak 
Dropped  from  the  sunset's  rare  and  radiant  loom. 


GOLD. 


I. 

GOLD,  virgin  gold ! 
Secret  scrolled  on  the  ages  old  ; 
Swift  eye-light  of  the  Infinite, 
Searching  earth,  that  palace  of  Time, 
With  penetrant  ra3-s  of  its  glance  sublime  ; 

Yellow  blood 

Of  solitude, 

Left  concealed  where  it  congealed 
When  God  declared  the  round  world  ' '  good  "  ; 

Pangs  of  birth 

The  infant  earth 
Knew  when  hurled,  a  perfect  world, 

To  its  place 
In  the  welcoming  arms  of  space  ; 

Creation's  glees 

And  jubilees, 

Transmuted  by  the  first  sunrise 
Into  precious  alchemies ; 

Gleams  chaotic 

Of  laws  despotic, 
As  yet  unripped  from  the  world's  dark  crypt ; 


GOLD.  137 

Cipher  of  silence,  graven  deep 
Where  darkness  and  where  danger  sleep  ; 
Magic  ring 
Of  marrying, 

That  gave  to  Time  a  bride  sublime ; 
Primal  kiss 
Of  Genesis, 
Thrilling  through 
The  unfathomed  New. 
Poem  of  the  pristine  ages 
Penned  on  the  Beginning's  pages  ; 
Grand  epithalamium  sung 
When  the  World  and  Time  were  young ; 
Harmonies  of  centuries 
Tangled  with  eternities ; 
Unsoiled,  unsoiling, 
Unreviled  and  unreviling, 
Broad-sown,  unknown, 
Unbought,  unsold, 
Gold,  virgin  gold ! 

» 

II. 

Gold,  beaten  gold ! 
Hunted  from  its  secret  shrines 
In  the  dungeons  of  the  mines  ; 

Stained  with  human  strife, 

Gained  with  human  life, 

Black  with  falsehood's  grime, 

Red  with  smirch  of  crime  ; 


138  GOLD. 

Torn  from  Nature's  savage  shoulders, 
From  her  gulches,  from  her  bowlders, 
While  the  nations  stood  and  heard  her 
Voices  crying,  "  Wrong,"  and  "  Murder," 
"  Woe,"  and  "  Sorrow,"  "  Pain,"  and  "  Terror,' 
And  the  echoes  echoed.  "  Error;  " 
Stretched  beneath  the  clank  and  clamor 
Of  the  oscillating  hammer, 

Which  a  glamour  spreads, 
While  it  swings,  while  it  rings, 
That  the  multitude  brings 
To  see  who  weds 

Gold,  virgin  gold, 
To  the  whims  of  that  tyrant  old,  — 
The  world,  which  laughs  and  frets, 
Remembers,  forgets, 
Loves,  and  denies, 
Yet  hugs  its  prize,  — 
Gold,  talismanic  gold ! 
See  it  quiver ! 
See  it  shiver ! 

See  the  bright,  crepuscular  foil 
Stretch,  and  shudder,  and  recoil ; 
See  it  tremble,  see  it  strive  ; 
See  it  writhing,  see  it  breathing,  — 

'T  is  alive ! 
Coiling,  twisting, 
Vainly  resisting 
The  quickened  blows 
~  That  smite  its  throes. 


GOLD.  139 

'T  is  a  slave : 
Mute  and  brave, 
Still  a  slave. 
Red  gold,  dead  gold, 
Twisted,  graven,  knotted,  scrolled ; 
Woven  into  Beauty's  hair ; 
Diademing  scowling  Care, 
And  his  tired  brother  Toil,  — 

Care  and  Toil,  twin  kings 
Of  the  kingdom  called  Turmoil. 
Smitten  gold, 
Written  gold ! 
Mystic  signet,  aureate 
On  the  outstretched  hand  of  Fate, 
Its  triumphant  glitter  blent 
With  Occident  and  Orient ; 
Scintillant  its  lurid  gleam 
Where  the  Hindoo  maidens  dream  ; 
Radiant  where  Memnon  waits 
The  opening  of  Ra's  splendid  gates, 
Where  the  long  Nile's  amber  waters 
Mirror  Afric's  dusk}7  daughters  ; 
Symbol  of  a  law  austere, 
Stamped  on  sphere  and  hemisphere ; 
Circled  into  wedding  rings,  — 
Those  mysterious,  fateful  things,  — 
Throning  Vice  in  Virtue's  palace, 
Moulded  into  priestly  chalice, 
Yellow  gold, 
Mellow  gold, 


140  GOLD. 

Beaten,  burnished,  rended,  rolled  ; 

Glimmering,  shimmering, 
Offering  laid  at  every  shrine, 
Bed  for  gems  from  every  mine  ; 
Fettering  the  ivory- wristed, 
With  the  robes  of  wantons  twisted, 
By  the  purest  hand  caressed, 
Gleaming  on  the  vilest  breast, 
Blent  with  sorrow,  blent  with  mirth, 
Veiling  death  and  crowning  birth, 
Woven  into  gain  and  loss, 
Fashioned  into  crown  and  cross,  — 

Decorator,  desolator, 
Gold,  beaten  gold ! 


III. 

Gold,  coined  gold ! 

Molten,  measured,  stamped,  and  sold ; 
Fatal  spell 
Hurled  up  from  hell, 

Or  down  to  mortals  from  Heaven's  portals  ; 
Blessing,  evil, 
Angel,  devil,  — 
Sin  and  shame  defied  for  it, 
Hope  and  love  denied  for  it ; 
Pleasure's  double, 
Twin  of  trouble, 
With  its  fatal  serpent  eyes 
Entering  earth's  Paradise, 


GOLD.  141 


Controlling  fate  of  Church  and  State, 
Which  from  the  Grande  to  the  Ganges 
Rings  its  multitudinous  changes. 

All  sing  the  king 

Who,  Janus-featured, 

Double-natured, 
As  a  blessing,  as  a  curse, 
For  the  better,  for  the  worse, 
Sits  throned  above  a  universe 
Which,  at  his  smile  or  at  his  frown, 
Elate  arises  or  bows  down. 

Swiftly  smiting, 

Swift  delighting, 

Yellow  Demon,  smirking  Leman  ; 
Heart  of  virtue,  soul  of  sin, 
Of  Right  and  Wrong  the  equal  twin  ; 

Vile  deceiver, 

Sweet  reliever, 
To  the  worthless  lending  worth  ; 

Joy  revealing, 

Gladness  stealing, 
With  its  bounty,  with  its  dole, 
Ruling  body,  ruling  soul ; 
Sounding  ocean's  deepest  deeps, 
Soaring  where  the  lightning  sleeps  ; 
Delving  in  the  dreariest  mines, 
Kneeling  at  the  happiest  shrines  ; 
Aiding  eager-handed  science 
Triumphantly  to  bid  defiance 
To  the  powers  of  earth  and  air, 


142  GOLD. 


Air  and  water,  earth  and  fire  ; 

Sending  Learning  from  his  throne 
To  girdle  earth  from  zone  to  zone, 
To  sound  the  seas,  to  scale  the  skies, 
To  rend  from  stars  their  mysteries, 
And  bound  the  world  with  enterprise ; 
At  the  funeral,  at  the  feast, 
Mightiest  oft  where  seeming  least, 
Type  of  error, 
Type  of  terror, 
Tyrant  of  the  day  and  hour 
Magic  and  mysterious  Power ; 
Life's  enjoyment, 
Joy's  allo3"ment ; 
Yellow  snare, 
Foul  and  fair ; 

From  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
Making  man  its  veriest  slave,  — 
Oh  the  want  of  it ! 
Oh  the  vaunt  of  it ! 
Gold,  coined  gold ! 


FROM  YEAR  TO   YEAR. 


*  I  "'HIS  is  the  sofa,  and  that  is  the  chair, 
And  the  English  ivy  is  twining  there 

The  marble  Dante's  brow  ; 
And  Raphael's  Mary  is  looking  down 
At  Murillo's  monk  with  the  cowled  crown, 

The  same  as  a  year  ago. 

The  same  ?    No  ;  nothing  is  ever  the  same 
From  3-ear  to  3*ear,  that  the  tongue  can  name  : 

This  scene  is  not,  I  know,  — 
For  there  by  that  curtain  of  dainty  lace, 
At  the  balconied  window,  I  miss  a  face 

That  was  there  a  year  ago. 

I  looked  on  it  from  the  ottoman  there, 
And  it  looked  at  me  from  that  velvet  chair, 

A  girl's  face  pure  as  snow. 
She  looked  like  a  being  divincty  bright, 
'Twixt  the  Holj*  Mother  and  monk,  that  night, 

That  night  just  a  year  ago. 


144  FROM  YEAR  TO  YEAR. 

The  south  wind  breathed  in  the  curtain  of  lace, 
And  the  marble  Dante  gazed  in  her  face,  — 

Her  face  pale  as  his  own  ; 

While  my  heart,  like  a  bird  all  plumed  for  flight, 
Stood  poised  on  the  wings  of  a  hope  that  night, 

Then  soared  to  heights  unknown. 


Ah  me !  I  remember  the  rush  and  the  thrill 

Of  that  flight  of  my  heart,  when  stars  stood  still 

Compared  to  its  wild  career ! 
Ah  me  !  I  remember  it  seemed  so  strange 
To  believe  that  time  had  the  power  to  change 

All  things  from  year  to  year. 


The  flowers  in  this  slender  Etruscan  vase, 
With  the  emerald  cup  and  the  silver  base, 

Are  Medellin  roses  rare ; 

I  smelt  them  that  night  when  I  knelt  at  her  feet ; 
They  were  deathly  white,  they  were  deathly  sweet, 

On  her  brow  and  her  braided  hair. 


I  could  smite  the  vase  for  its  scented  flowers, 
I  could  hate  this  room  for  its  vanished  hours  ; 

I  could  curse  the  painted  stare 
Of  the  cruel  monk,  the  Madonna  mild, 
Who  saw  that  night  how  cruelty  smiled 

The  girl  in  the  velvet  chair ! 


FROM  YEAR  TO  YEAR.  145 

Ah,  maiden  wbman !  I  believe  even  now 
That  hour  is  shading  your  perfect  brow, 

The  matchless  curve  of  your  lip  ; 
And  Medellin  roses  make  you  turn  white  : 
Their  odor  is  strong,  and  out  of  their  sight 

Your  troubled  eyes  love  to  slip. 

Yes,  this  is  the  sofa,  and  that  is  the  chair, 
And  the  English  ivy  is  twining  there, 

Where  the  books  and  the  marbles  lie  ; 
And  the  painted  Madonna  hangs  in  her  frame, 
And  seems  unchanged,  but  she  is  not  the  same — 

Any  more  than  are  you  and  I. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  PRAYER. 


'"THHEY  laid  the  young  child  on  the  grandmother's  knee,- 

•^       A  beautiful  boy,  immortality's  heir ; 
His  brow  a  pure  page  from  life's  handwriting  free, 

His  heart  yet  untroubled  by  sorrow  or  care. 
The  grandmother  bent  o'er  the  fair  little  form, 

And  smiled  a  sweet  welcome,  caressing  and  warm  ; 
Then,  laying  her  hand  on  the  innocent  head, 

"  Oh,  bless  it  and  save  it !  "  she  tenderly  said. 


The  tocsin  of  battle  was  heard  far  and  wide  ; 

The  young  soldier  knelt  at  his  grandmother's  knee, 
And,  lifting  his  brow  to  her  fond  kiss  of  pride, 

Said,  "  Grandmother,  hast  thou  no  blessing  for  me?" 
She  bent  her  kind  face,  now  well  stricken  in  years, 

And  like  a  new  baptism  fast  fell  her  tears, 
As,  clasping  her  hands  o'er  the  manly  young  head, 

'*  Oh,  bless  him  and  save  him  !  "  she  fervently  plead. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  PRAYER.  147 

The  combat  was  over ;  the  wounded  and  slain 

La}r  gory  and  grim  where  their  spirits  had  sped ; 
The  whispering  winds  that  stole  over  the  plain 

Grew  dumb  in  the  horrible  hush  of  the  dead. 
There,  fair  in  his  slumber  as  brave  in  his  life, 

The  soldier  youth  lay  mid  the  wrecks  of  the  strife ; 
His  lip,  which  the  battle  had  robbed  of  its  breath, 

Still  smiled  as  it  froze  'neath  the  finger  of  Death. 

Woe-mantled,  the  living  came  seeking  him  there  ; 

They  bore  the  3*oung  form  to  the  grandmother's  side. 
Her  wrinkled  hands  smoothed  out  the  battle-tossed  hair, 

And  she  kissed  the  brave  lips  which  smiling  had  died. 
Again  the  swift  tears  from  her  aged  eyes  fell 

O'er  the  darling  her  old  heart  had  cherished  so  well ; 
Then,  kneeling  to  pray  for  the  young  spirit  sped, 

*'  Oh,  bless  it  and  save  it ! "  she  solemnly  said. 

"  Bless  it  and  save  it !  "  —  Oh,  eloquent  prayer, 

How  joyeth  the  heart  in  its  beautiful  light ! 
So  brief,  comprehensive,  its  little  words  bear 

A  meaning  which  compasseth  all  in  His  sight. 
To  be  saved  from  the  billows  and  breakers  of  life, 

To  be  blessed  amid  worldly  temptations  and  strife ; 
To  be  saved  when  all  this  that  is  earthly  is  o'er ; 

To  be  blessed,  to  be  saved,  —  what  heart  could  ask  more  ? 


LIFE'S  MUTATIONS. 


"     A   YE  !  "  croaks  the  crooked  crone, 

-*-^~    As  she  walks  the  forest  through, 
"  Flaunt  your  roses,  maiden, 

And  flash  your  eyes  of  blue ! 
For  life  goes  round  in  circles,  — 

As  I  am,  you  may  be ; 
The  tender  bud  and  the  crispen  leaf 

Grow  on  the  self-same  tree !  " 


"  Girl,  bless  3rour  bridal  wreath," 

Saith  the  corpse  upon  its  bier,  — 
"  Orange-flowers  and  beauty 

Must  all  at  last  end  here ! 
For  life  goes  round  in  circles,  — 

Where  I  am,  you  must  lie  ; 
On  the  self-same  stem  where  roses  bloom, 

There  do  the  roses  die  !  " 


LIFE'S  MUTATIONS.  149 

"  Toss  not  your  pence  so  rudely," 

To  the  prince  the  pauper  cried ; 
"  Fortune,  fickle  coquette, 

Not  alwaj's  favors  pride. 
For  life  goes  round  in  circles, 

It  swirleth  up  and  down  ; 
To-day,  who  plays  the  Jester  may 

To-morrow  wear  the  crown  ! " 

*'  "Walk  not  so  calm  and  statety," 

Righteousness  whispered  to  Crime  ; 
"  Temptation  brings  strange  victims 

At  last  to  the  rack  of  Time  ! 
For  life  goes  round  in  circles  ; 

Where  I  am,  you  may  be  ; 
The  good  ship  sails,  and  the  good  ship  sinks, 

All  on  the  self-same  sea ! " 


AT  THE  WHEEL. 


HT^HAT  "constant  employment  is  constant  enjoyment," 

I  often  have  heard  the  dear  old  people  say ; 
But  fuller  the  measure  of  my  simple  pleasure 
If  Robin  and  I  were  but  roaming  to-day. 

Here  I  must  keep  busy,  though  wear}*  and  dizzy, 
Still  whirling  my  wheel,  and  still  spinning  my  thread ; 

Though  harvests  are  yellow,  and  bird-notes  are  mellow, 
And  lips  of  wild  roses  glow  fervently  red  ! 

The  path  through  the  meadow  lies  cool  in  the  shadow, 
The  mischievous  brook  laughs  aloud  in  the  vale  ; 

The  cry  of  the  plover  floats  tunefully  over 
The  rattle  of  osiers  that  redden  the  swale. 


The  bee,  from  the  bosom  of  red-clover  blossom, 
Has  hurried  to  sip  of  the  buckwheat  in  bloom  ; 

The  blush  of  the  thistle,  the  blackbird's  clear  whistle, 
Are  blent  with  the  summer-day's  light  and  perfume. 


AT  THE  WHEEL.  151 

The  soft  wandering  gale  fills  a  silvery  sail 
That  idly  floats  by  on  }*on  far-away  stream, 

And  a  frail  spirit-boat  'neath  the  other  doth  float, 
Faintly  fair,  like  some  beautiful  dream  of  a  dream. 

I 
"With  odors  of  myrtle  the  voice  of  the  turtle 

Comes  drowsily  up  from  the  valley  below ; 
I  hear  the  dull  rapping  of  woodpecker's  tapping 
The  bark  where  the  hollow  old  sycamores  grow. 

The  beetle  is  humming  of  autumn  days  coming, 
And  swings  in  its  leaf  hammock  hung  in  the  vale  ; 

The  lily  gasps  faintly  as,  passionless,  saintly, 
It  stands  in  the  path  of  the  libertine  gale. 

The  clink,  clink  of  the  blade  rises  clear  from  the  glade 
Where,  sharpening  the  scythe,  stands  the  whistling  mower ; 

While  the  gossiping  crow,  on  his  tall  hickor3r  bough, 
Sits  moodil}*  muttering  his  meaningless  lore. 

There  are  mystical  fingers  whose  gentle  touch  lingers, 
It  seems,  as  I  listen,  on  yon  golden  plain, 

There  blending,  and  shading,  and  lovingly  braiding 
The  sunbeams  astray  with  the  beard  of  the  grain. 

With  tired  hand  twirling  the  wheel  that  keeps  whirling, 
The  wearisome  spindle  I  speed  all  the  day ; 

With  the  whirl  of  the  wheel  how  my  brain  seems  to  reel, 
And  longs  from  the  dull  hum  to  hurry  away ! 


152  AT  THE  WHEEL. 

Oh,  how  gladly  I  '11  watch  the  first  star-ray  to  catch, 
That  shall  tell  when  the  sun  lieth  low  in  the  west ; 

"When  swallows  home  darting  tell  day  is  departing, 
And  night  brings  the  toiler  sweet  guerdon  of  rest. 

Then  over  the  "  hollow"  and  green  "  summer  fallow " 
I  shall  hear  the  loud  summons  of  "  Co'  boss  !  co'  boss  !  " 

"While  "  Lineback  "  and  "  Dover,"  breaths  sweetened  with 

clover, 
The  cool,  fragrant  pastures  come  slowly  across, 

"With  "  Brownie"  and  "  Daisy,"  milk-laden  and  lazy, 
The  gentle-eyed  heifer  half-standing  aloof; 

"While  the  dew-laden  grass  gently  yields  as  they  pass 
To  the  lingering  print  of  each  slowly  raised  hoof. 

Then  away,  then  away,  as  dies  the  long  day, 

O'er  the  path  that  leads  down  to  the  sycamore  grove, 

"Where  dear  Robin  will  wait  by  the  old  wicket  gate, 
With  a  smile  for  my  eyes,  and  a  heart  for  my  love ! 


RILMA'S   FAREWELL. 


T^VEAR  Love !  the  words  are  said, 
^"^   Thou  know'st  we  may  not  wed ; 

Farewell  to  thee,  farewell : 
Upon  the  beach  I  stand 
And  kiss  to  thee  my  hand ; 

Yonder  the  white  sails  swell ! 

Yea !  on  the  beach  I  stand, 
And  to  thee  kiss  my  hand ; 

My  lips  thou  might' st  not  touch,  — 
'T  were  little,  yet  too  much, 
'Twixt  thee  and  me,  dear  friend ! 

Therefore  so  let  it  end. 

Surely  thou  know'st  the  word, 
The  bitterest  ever  heard,  — 

The  woful  whisper,  "  parted  "? 
'T  is  but  a  swift,  pale  breath, 
And  yet  'tis  death,  'tis  death 

Unto  the  loving-hearted ! 
7* 


154  RILMA'S  FAREWELL. 

* 

I  see  the  widening  space 
'Twixt  mine  and  thy  dear  face, 

I  know  my  heart  must  break ; 
I  know  that  thou  art  gone, 
I  know  I  am  alone, 

Yet  smile  for  thy  dear  sake. 

Pale,  sad,  bereft  of  speech, 
I  pace  the  shingly  beach, 

I  linger  on  the  sands, 
And  wring  and  wring  my  hands ; 
I  know  my  aching  heart 

Must  go  where'er  thou  art ; 

Though  through  my  falling  tears 
I  see  a  wall  of  years 

Dividing  thee  from  me, 
As  land  divides  the  sea ; 
O'er  it  hope  cannot  soar,  — 

I  know  we  meet  no  more ! 

Thou  wilt  go  on  thy  way, 
Sad  for  a  year  and  day, 

By  slowly  fading  embers  ; 
A  man's  heart  jo}'s  again, 
A  woman's  dies  of  pain  : 

He  laughs,  while  she  —  remembers  ! 


HOW   LONG? 


/"T"*HE   storm  has  put  out  the  stars,  and  the  night  is 

blind ; 
But  the  Hours  grope  their  way  through  the  darkness,  on  to 

a  time 
When  Morning,  the  pink-palmed,  shall  come  to  the  door 

of  the  East, 

And  with  fragrant  fingers  beckon  one  out  of  the  gloom, 
And,  choosing  him,  kiss  him  with  kisses  that  shine  like 

light, 
And,  kissing  him,  call  him  her  chosen,  the  Prince  of  the 

Dawn. 


The  storm  has  put  out  the  stars  and  my  life  is  blind. 

I  grope  in  the  darkness  back  to  the  star  of  a  night 

When  one  star  shining  illumined  the  world  for  me  ; 

One  star,  —  it  went  down,  and  for  me  it  rose  nevermore. 

Long  have  I  waited  in  darkness  to  greet  it  again  ; 

Waited  for  it  to  lay  on  my  uplifted  forehead 

The  white  kiss  of  its  rare  and  wonderful  radiance  ; 


156  HOW  LONG? 

Waited  and  watched  for  it  to  lead  me  upward, 
Out  of  the  drenching  darkness  and  gloom  of  the  night. 
Will  it  come  back  to  me  never  ? 
Does  any  star  set  forever  ? 
How  long,  how  long,  must  I  wait? 


IN   DREAMS. 


/V    PRESENCE  felt,  but  never  seen ; 

A  voice  not  heard,  but  understood ; 
A  shadowy  bliss  that  comes  between 
My  soul  and  my  soul's  widowhood ; 


A  touch  upon  my  slumbering  brow ; 

A  breath  upon  my  eyelids  pressed ; 
A  vision  fading,  that  but  now 

In  dreams  my  dreamy  lip  caressed ; 

A  voiceless  echo,  soft  and  sweet, 
And  held  in  tremulous  control, 

That  wakes  my  wild  heart's  busy  beat, 
And  softly  serenades  my  soul ; 

The  coming  of  a  soft  eclipse,  — 

Love's  shadow  'twixt  the  world  and  me, 
Beneath  whose  veil  my  glowing  lips 

Betray  my  spirit's  ecstasy ; 


158  IN  DKEAMS. 

A  reaching  after  glorious  aims  ; 

A  searching  of  the  soul's  intents ; 
A  looking  up  from  earthly  shames ; 

A  kneeling  at  new  sacraments  ; 

The  vision  of  a  soul  made  great 

And  grand  by  might  of  mighty  needs ; 

The  vision  of  a  soul  elate 

And  strong  with  strength  of  mighty  deeds  ; 

A  sense  of  something  sentient 
That  holds  me  in  a  spirit  clasp  ; 

The  3rearning  of  my  Being,  bent 

To  grasp  that  which  eludes  my  grasp  ; 

The  cool  of  dews  upon  m}'  face, 
Dropped  from  the  broken  dusk  of  dawn ; 

A  perished  joy,  a  vanished  grace, 
A  weary  sigh  for  something  gone  ; 

The  breaking  of  sleep's  golden  thread ; 

The  clashing  of  life's  brazen  rings  ; 
A  gathering  gloom,  a  glory  fled, 

A  coming  back  to  earthly  things. 


IT   RAINS. 


\    SUDDEN  sweetness  unto  all  the  world 
•*•*•    The  summer  rain  is  bringing ; 
Glad  odors  from  the  lush,  green  meadow  grass, 

Like  larks,  are  upward  springing. 

The  scent  of  blossoms,  growing  in  a  wood, 

Just  now  above  me  floated, 
And  from  a  hidden  nest  a  thrush's  song, 

Duetted  and  devoted. 

The  fainting  earth,  like  some  fresh-watered  flower, 

Revives  beneath  its  wetting, 
And  flings,  from  out  a  thousand  fragrant  nooks, 

Sweet  things  I  was  forgetting. 

From  cypress  swamps  an  herby  odor  comes, 

Where  weedy  wonders  waken, 
To  pour  their  grateful  gladness  out  for  drops 

Upon  their  petals  shaken. 


160  IT  RAINS. 

And  roses,  sighing  by  the  wayside,  lift 

Their  gentle,  Juney  faces 
To  read  the  strange  handwriting  of  the  rain 

In  unfamiliar  places. 

The  startled  violets  tremble,  as  they  drop 
Their  heads  to  deeper  hiding, 

Afraid  of  this  mere  phantom  of  a  storm, 
Across  the  green  earth  gliding. 

The  sweet  of  all  the  scented  shower  is  mine, 
No  balmy  touch  has  missed  me  ; 

Why  has  it  waked  the  memory  of  dear  lips 
That  one  day  stooped  and  kissed  me ! 


UP   THE   HILL. 


T  LAY  my  head  on  a  daisy  bed, 

My  couch  is  of  feathery  ferns  ; 
The  sweetest  bird  that  ever  was  heard 

Is  singing  and  silent  by  turns. 
Just  at  my  side,  with  a  laughing  tide, 

That  toys  with  the  odorous  mosses, 
A  mountain  stream,  like  one  in  a  dream, 

Impatiently  turns  and  tosses. 

O  vagrant  rover,  rollicking  brook,  — 

Say,  whither  so  fast  this  morning  ? 
Hast  brought  to  me  from  some  forest  nook 

No  word  of  cheer  nor  of  warning  ? 
From  every  accent  of  Nature's  tongue 

Some  truth  is  to  be  translated  ; 
Why  then  are  thy  mountain  ripples  rung? 

With  what  is  thy  swift  tide  freighted? 

You  answer,  low,  that  "yon  blossom's  brow 
Should  show  you  a  sign  more  tender ; " 

And  now  you  quaff,  with  mischievous  laugh, 
Yon  lily-cup's  scarlet  splendor ! 


162  UP  THE  HILL. 

I  hear  your  fleet,  meandering  feet 

Upon  the  jewel-like  pebbles  ; 
Where  shadows  fall,  or  where  glooms  appall, 

I  hear  your  tunefulest  trebles. 


Upon  your  path  the  opulent  fields 

And  woods  their  loveliness  squander ; 
You,  like  a  young  friar  in  disguise, 

Among  them  jauntily  wander. 
Here,  on  your  breast  you  tenderly  place 

The  sweetly  capricious  roses  ; 
There,  from  the  gentian's  jealous  face 

You  kiss  the  tear  it  discloses. 


Upon  thy  brink  the  gay  bobolink 

Has  stilled  his  audacious  throat, 
As  if  to  hear,  with  a  critic's  ear, 

Thy  soft  and  musical  note. 
Beneath  thy  brim  thy  jubilant  hymn 

Is  thrilling  the  silvery  water 
With  notes  of  praise  for  the  wondrous  ways 

Of  Nature,  thy  Alma  Mater  ! 


O  mountain  singer,  my  mission  name  ! 

Say,  what  should  my  hands  be  doing? 
Say,  what  is  the  noblest  earthly  aim 

My  soul  should  be  now  pursuing? 


UP  THE  HILL.  '  163 

Within  my  grasp  what  good  is  shrined  ? 

What  in  my  life  worth  living  ? 
To  bless  or  benefit  mankind, 

What  in  my  grasp  worth  giving  ? 


Thou,  newly  come  from  thy  nature-home,  — 

Its  pure  and  unworldly  preachings 
Surely  to-day  can  to  me  convey 

Profound  and  exalted  teachings. 
Dost  to  me  bear  surcease  from  care, 

Or  somnolent  potions  for  sorrow  ; 
News  from  my  dead,  or  cure  for  the  dread 

Unfaltering  steps  of  To-morrow  ? 


Life's  sweet  days  pass,  and  the  gulf  of  years 

Its  vague  deep  opes  to  receive  them  ; 
Life's  sweet  joys  die,  — into  cloth  of  tears 

Time's  shuttles  busily  weave  them. 
Long-cherished  faiths,  to  the  soul  endeared, 

Agnostic  spectres  are  haunting ; 
From  shrines  that  the  inmost  heart  revered, 

Doubt's  fatal  banners  are  flaunting. 


Dost  thou  not  bring,  in  the  song  you  sing 

With  so  much  innocent  riot, 
The  subtile  chimes  of  the  sweet  old  times, 

Which  knew  not  sorrow's  fiat ; 


164  UP  THE  HILL. 

Nor  bring  the  spell,  remembered  well, 
Dear  hands  once  cast  around  me, 

When  sweeter  bays,  when  trustier  praise, 
And  truer  friends  had  crowned  me  ? 


Or  if  thy  coming  unto  me  brings 

Themes  worthier  of  my  heeding, 
Why  hid'st,  in  whatever  thy  gladness  sings, 

A  lesson  beyond  my  reading  ? 
Dost  bid  my  soul  to  no  longer  yearn 

For  the  heights  it  ne'er  has  gained  ; 
To  cease  to  struggle,  and  toil,  and  burn 

For  the  Ever  Unattained  ? 


Ah !  where  does  it  smile,  that  wonderful  Isle, 

The  Unattainable  Land,  — 
With  the  dampened  fires,  and  the  broken  lyres, 

That  strew  its  untrodden  strand  ; 
With  its  tired  slaves,  and  its  conquered  braves, 

And  its  beacon  of  vain  endeavor ; 
With  weird  control,  luring  soul  after  soul 

To  seek  it  forever  and  ever ; 


With  its  feverish  flashes,  its  fervid  schemes, 

Its  fascinations  despotic, 
Its  dying  smiles,  and  its  beautiful  dreams, 

Its  aims  and  visions  chaotic ; 


UP  THE  HILL.  165 

With  its  passion-flowers,  and  the  ruined  hopes 

On  its  lurid  beaches  burning ; 
With  the  shattered  lives  on  its  fatal  slopes, 

Its  pilgrims  sadly  returning  ? 


Hast  naught  to  say  ?    Then  away,  away ! 

Go  turn  the  mill  in  the  meadow ; 
Go  lure  the  gale,  in  the  willowed  vale, 

To  chase  thy  shine  and  thy  shadow. 
The  simple  lay  I  have  sung  to-day 

By  to-morrow  will  have  perished ; 
Thy  mystic  song  will  to  earth  belong 

When  mine  is  left  uncherished ! 


ASHES   OF  ROSES. 


EMEMBER  thee?  Dear  Love  !  the  thievish  years, 

Which  steal  so  much  from  every  human  jo}T, 
Have  robbed  thine  image  of  its  frame  of  tears, 
But  left  it  tints  time  never  can  destro}T. 
On  Memory's  golden  easel  here  it  stands, 
In  all  the  rare  perfection  that  was  thine 
When  first,  upon  Life's  shining,  morning  sands, 
Thy  glad  young  face  was  lifted  up  to  mine ! 

As  then,  my  darling,  here  thy  beauty  glows,  — 
One  white  hand  prisoning  its  pretty  mate, 
The  dimple  ambushed  in  thy  cheek's  red  rose, 
Thy  chestnut  curls,  thy  brow  immaculate, 
Thy  bosom  swelling  with  its  happy  sighs, 
Thy  life  yet  free  from  sorrow's  first  ech'pse, 
The  smile  that  grew  and  budded  in  thine  eyes, 
And  bloomed  at  last  upon  thy  dewy  lips. 

Ah,  fair  the  picture !     From  the  world's  rude  strife 
I  turn,  its  sacred  loveliness  to  kiss ; 
Though  all  the  choicest  roses  of  my  life 
Were  ground  to  ashes,  Love,  to  paint  me  this ! 


ASHES  OF  ROSES.  167 

No  more  my  heart  against  it  breaks  with  sighs, 
Throbs  with  mad  passion,  tastes  of  bitter  lees  ; 
But  there  is  something  dims  my  wistful  eyes, 
More  fond,  more  true,  and  tenderer  far  than  these. 

If  but  the  heart  a  portal  once  unlock 
For  love  to  stand  within  the  mystic  gate, 
Its  footprints,  like  the  impress  on  a  rock, 
Dead  leaves  may  fill,  but  naught  obliterate. 
Regret  may  fade,  woe  weep  itself  to  death, 
But  love  so  close  to  the  supernal  clings, 
Though  death  and  burial  it  encompasseth, 
In  Memory's  Heaven  it  wears  immortal  wings. 

Would  I  forget  thee,  that  thou  didst  not  dare 
Th}T  life's  bright  girdle  then  to  cast  round  me  ? 
Not  love  thee,  that  my  selfish,  passionate  pra}Ter 
Linked  not  with  mine  thy  fairer  destiny  ? 
Do  we  love  less  the  rose  we  may  not  take  ; 
Call  less  than  star  the  star  beyond  our  grasp  ; 
Disdain  the  precious  dream  we  do  but  wake 
To  find  unreal  in  our  eager  clasp  ? 

Nay,  darling,  as  of  old  I  keep  thee  yet, 
"Without  one  blemish  on  thy  beauty  laid, 
Shrined  in  a  niche  m}'  tears  have  often  wet, 
But  whence  no  faithless  thought  has  ever  strayed. 
Around  the  lonely  ruins  of  my  years 
The  joy  of  having  known  thee  twines  alway, 
And  flings  o'er  crumbling  hopes  and  wasting  fears 
A  radiance  that  deifies  decay. 


NOX. 


to  me,  tears,  if  come  to  me  ye  must, 
In  hours  like  these,  when  all  the  world  is  far ; 
When  all  the  bj'gone  brightness  of  my  days 
On  my  lone  heart  is  shining  like  a  star. 
Come  ye,  while  men  remember  but  my  smiles, 
Think  of  my  presence  as  a  thing  of  songs, 
Envy  my  lot,  and,  in  these  silent  hours, 
Dream  of  my  joys  in  contrast  to  their  wrongs. 

Come,  as  the  raindrops  from  the  cloudlet  come, 
The  burden  from  the  cloudlet's  heart  to  bear. 
Sparkle  and  shine,  white  diamonds  of  a  mine 
Whose  jewel-light  the  world  may  never  share. 
Thy  gleam  shall  show  me,  for  a  little  while, 
The  youth-coast,  with  its  rose  and  amber  shore 
From  which  men  gayly  sail,  then  ever  j'earii 
To  drop  life's  iron  anchors  there  once  more. 

I  think  to-night  of  dear,  affectioned  lips, 
Whose  kisses  rest  in  that  unlettered  urn, 
White  in  some  niche  of  every  human  life, 
Whence  love  and  tenderness  no  more  return. 


NOX.  169 

Come  to  me,  tears,  my  lonely  spirit  thrill 
As  gentle  tropic  winds  thrill  tropic  palms  ; 
Fall  ye,  as  fell  those  farewells  which  awoke 
My  heart  forever  from  its  summer  calms. 

I  am  alone,  as  is  the  pine  alone, 

Left  where  has  fallen  the  surrounding  wood ; 

Sunshine  about  me,  but  my  hidden  heart 

Unbrightened  in  its  voiceless  solitude. 

Come  to  me,  tears,  —  come  like  the  twilight  mist 

That  o'er  the  dusk  and  lonely  valle}"  gleams  ; 

Veil  from  me  Memory's  disappointing  plains, 

Where  rise  the  empty  tents  of  life's  vain  dreams. 


SURRENDERED. 


*T*0-DAY,  from  out  my  life's  fair  garden  fell 

"*•     A  fruit  perfected.     On  the  scant}'  bough 
Of  Friendship,  I  can  see,  alas  !  too  well, 
Where  once  it  grew,  a  saddening  voidness  now. 
A  goodly  graft  it  was  ;  one  I  had  wound 
With  my  own  heart,  to  bind  it  safe  and  warm 
From  frosts  and  tempests  which  too  oft  had  found 
And  hurt  dear  things  I  strove  to  shield  from  harm. 
A  human  heart  was  faithful  ligature, 
But  to  the  twig  who  may  its  bloom  secure? 

Ah,  well  I  what  matters  it?    Ripe  fruit  will  fall ; 

Perfection's  twin  is  Progress,  not  Decay ; 

The  bough  that  grows  across  the  orchard  wall 

Must  drop  its  apple  on  the  outer  way. 

'T  is  true,  beyond  the  limit  of  my  reach 

Has  passed  a  life  my  own  life  must  forego ; 

But  it  is  in  the  world,  to  learn,  to  teach, 

To  gain,  to  give,  to  struggle,  and  to  grow. 

'T  was  mine,  't  is  not  mine,  —  what  should  I  regret? 

A  sun  comes  ever  up,  for  one  sun  set. 


WAYNE. 


"\7E  hills  of  Wayne !  ye  hills  of  Wayne  ! 

-*•     In  dreams  I  see  your  slopes  again  ; 
In  dreams  my  childish  feet  explore 
Your  daisied  dells  beloved  of  yore  ; 
In  dreams,  with  eager  feet,  I  press 
Far  up  your  heights  of  loveliness, 
And  stand,  a  glad-eyed  girl  again, 
Upon  the  happy  hills  of  Wayne  ! 

I  see  once  more  the  glad  sunrise 
Break  on  the  world's  awakening  eyes ; 
I  see  once  more  the  tender  corn 
Shake  out  its  banners  to  the  morn ; 
I  see  the  sleepy  valle}*s  kissed 
And  robbed  of  all  their  robes  of  mist, 
When  laughing  Day  is  queen  again 
Of  all  the  verdant  hills  of  Wayne. 

I  bind  about  my  childish  brow 

The  bloomy  thorn-trees'  scented  snow ; 


172 


I  see  upon  the  fading  flowers 
The  fatal  fingers  of  the  hours  ; 
I  see  the  distant  village  spire 
Catch  on  its  tip  a  star  of  fire, 
As  in  my  dreams  the  sun  again 
Goes  down  behind  the  hills  of  Wayne. 

The  cowboy's  coaxing  call  across 

The  meadow  comes,  —  "  Co'  boss,  co'  boss  !  " 

And  milky-odored  cattle  lift 

Their  hoofs  among  the  daisy  drift. 

The  day  is  over  all  too  soon  ; 

And  up  the  sky  the  haunted  moon 

Glides  with  its  ghost,  and  bends  again 

Above  the  wooded  hills  of  Wayne. 

Ah  !  I  have  laughed  in  many  a  land  ; 
And  I  have  sighed  on  many  a  strand 
And  lonely  beach,  where  written  be 
The  solemn  scriptures  of  the  sea  ; 
And  I  have  climbed  the  grandest  heights 
The  moon  of  midnight  ever  lights  ; 
But  memory  turned  from  all,  again 
To  kneel  upon  the  hills  of  Wayne. 

Ye  hills  of  Wa}'ne  !  3*6  hills  of  Wa}rne  ! 
Ye  woods,  ye  vales,  ye  fields  of  grain  ! 
Ye  scented  morns,  ye  blue-eyed  noons  ! 
Ye  ever  unforgotten  moons  ! 


'    WAYNE.  173 

No  matter  where  my  latest  breath 
Shall  freeze  beneath  the  kiss  of  death,  — 
May  some  one  bear  me  back  again 
To  sleep  among  the  hills  of  Wayne ! 


A  WOMAN'S   WISH. 


T  T  70ULD  I  were  lying  in  a  field  of  clover, 

Of  clover  cool  and  soft,  and  soft  and  sweet, 
With  dusky  clouds  in  deep  skies  hanging  over, 
And  scented  silence  at  my  head  and  feet. 


Just  for  one  hour  to  slip  the  leash  of  Worry, 
In  eager  haste,  from  Thought's  impatient  neck, 

And  watch  it  coursing,  in  its  heedless  hurry 
Disdaining  Wisdom's  call  or  Duty's  beck ! 

Ah !  it  were  sweet,  where  clover  clumps  are  meeting 
And  daisies  hiding,  so  to  hide  and  rest ; 

No  sound  except  my  own  heart's  sturdy  beating, 
Rocking  itself  to  sleep  within  my  breast,  — 

Just  to  lie  there,  filled  with  the  deeper  breathing 
That  comes  of  listening  to  a  wild  bird's  song ! 

Our  souls  require  at  times  this  full  unsheathing,  — 
All  swords  will  rust  if  scabbard-kept  too  long ; 


A  WOMAN'S  WISH.  175 

And  I  am  tired,  —  so  tired  of  rigid  duty, 
So  tired  of  all  my  tired  hands  find  to  do ! 

I  yearn,  I  faint,  for  some  of  life's  free  beaut}', 

Its  loose  beads  with  no  straight  string  running  through  ! 

Aye,  laugh,  if  laugh  you  will,  at  my  crude  speech ; 

But  women  sometimes  die  of  such  a  greed,  — 
Die  for  the  small  joys  held  beyond  their  reach, 

And  the  assurance  they  have  all  they  need ! . 


HIC    JACET. 


A  ND  this  is  life  :  to  live,  to  love,  to  lose ! 
<^*<    To  feel  a  joy  stir,  like  an  unsung  song, 
The  deep,  unwrit  emotions  of  our  souls  ; 
Then,  when  we  fain  would  utter  it,  to  find 
Our  glad  lips  stricken  dumb. 

To  watch  a  hope 

Climb  like  a  rising  star,  till  from  the  heights 
Of  fair  existence  it  sends  lustre  down, 
Whose  radiance  makes  earth's  very  shadows  shine  ; 
Then  suddenly  to  see  it  disappear, 
Leaving  a  bleak,  appalling  emptiness 
In  all  the  sky  it  did  illuminate. 

To  build  up,  stone  by  stone,  a  temple  fair, 
On  whose  white  altars  we  do  burn  our  days  ; 
To  form  its  arches  of  our  dearest  dreams, 
To  shape  its  pillars  of  our  strongest  strength,  — 
Then  suddenly  to  see  that  temple  fall, 
A  broken  and  irreparable  wreck, 


HIC  JACET.  177 

Its  shape  all  shapeless,  and  its  formless  form 
In  ruthless  Ruin's  unrelenting  grasp. 

To  veil  our  shrinking  ej-es  lest  they  should  see 
Life's  grim  appraisers,  Death  and  Burial, 
Come  down  the  path  that  leads  across  our  hearts, 
And  write  us  paupers  in  the  Book  of  Love. 

To  dream,  in  all  life's  happy  arrogance, 
Life's  proud  proportions  limitless,  then  to  find 
Life's  limit  narrowed  down  to  one  fresh  grave  ; 
To  stand  beside  that  new-made  mound  and  feel 
Within  that  cell  is  locked  forever  up 
The  precious  honey,  gathered  drop  by  drop 
From  out  the  fairest  flower-fields  of  our  souls  ; 
Lonely  and  desolate  to  cast  ourselves, 
In  some  White  City  of  the  Silent,  down 
Beside  some  cold,  forbidding  marble  door, 
And  feel  ourselves  forever  shut  away 
From  that  which  was  our  dearest  and  our  own  ; 
To  know,  however  earnestly  we  knock, 
That  door  will  ne'er  be  opened  unto  us  ; 
To  know  the  dweller  there  will  never  step 
Beyond  the  boundary  of  that  cruel  gate  ; 
To  know,  howe'er  we  plead,  no  lip  therein 
Will  break  into  its  old  accustomed  smile, 
The  folded  hands  stretch  out  no  welcomings, 
The  fastened  e3-elids  never  lift  themselves 
Again  in  answering  anguish,  or  glad  love, 
From  out  the  frozen  bondage  of  their  sleep. 
8*  L 


178  HIC  JACET. 

'T  is  this  to  love  and  bury  out  of  sight 
Some  precious  darling  of  our  .dearest  years,  — 
Some  far  outstretching  root  of  our  own  hearts, 
Some  flowery  branch  that  we  had  hoped  to  train 
Along  the  loftiest  trellises  of  Hope. 

Life,  Love,  and  Loss !  Three  little  words  that  make 
The  compass  of  that  varied  road  which  lies 
Stretched  out  between  our  swaddles  and  our  shroud  ! 

Life,  Love,  and  Loss  !  Three  ripples  on  one  brook : 
Three  widening  branches  of  one  mighty  stream ; 
Three  stemless  currents,  emptying  themselves 
Into  one  vast  and  vague  Eternity  ! 


TWO. 


one  he  brought  the  rarest  flowers 
That  gold  could  buy, 
And  gave  them  with  the  courteous  smile 

That  masked  a  sigh. 
Upon  the  other  he  bestowed, 

With  scarce  a  look, 
A  few  wild  violets,  gathered  by 
A  wayside  brook. 

When  from  the  skies,  that  golden  day, 

Went  out  the  sun, 
Of  all  the  flowers  the  first  received, 

Remained  not  one ! 
Some  lured  her  swans ;  some  gayly  graced 

The  fawn  she  petted  ; 
Some  decked  her  starling's  cage  :  all  died, 

Not  one  regretted. 

The  other  shyly  from  the  world 

Turned  her  apart, 
And  hid  her  wayside  violets 

Upon  her  heart. 


180  TWO. 

And  he  who  gave  to  each  that  day 

Such  different  share, 
By  one  was  scorned ;  the  other  breathed 

His  name  in  prayer ! 

Years  afterward,  a  woman  died, — 

A  lonely  creature, 
Whose  sorrows  were  not  written  out 

On  form  or  feature  ; 
But  the3r  who  shrouded  her  do  say, 

Dead  on  her  breast, 
Close,  close  unto  her  cold  dumb  heart, 

Were  violets  pressed. 


TO    BE. 


DEATH !  wert  thou  only  a  journej7  to  take, 
Just  a  pilgrimage,  whence  to  return  by  and  by, 
How  many  who  boast  of  the  happiest  hearts, 
From  the  world  and  its  wjorry  would  turn  them  and  die  ; 
In  the  realms  of  the  resting  rejoiced  to  sojourn,  — 
If  they  could  but  return,  —  if  they  could  but  return ! 

If  we  only  could  die  for  a  day,  or  an  hour, 
And  the  tramp  of  our  troubles  could  go  on  above 
Our  quieted  hearts,  which  no  longer  would  ache, 
Nor  break  with  their  burdens  of  hate  or  of  love,  — 
How  sweet  from  existence  thus  briefly  to  sever, 
Unawed  by  the  awful  Forever  and  Ever. 

Not  to  sleep,  but  to  die,  — with  no  sense  left  awake, 
Not  a  pulse  left  to  thrill,  not  a  nerve  left  to  quiver,  — 
Then  calmly  to  float  out,  uncaring,  ungrieved, 
Across  the  deep  dark  of  the  fathomless  river ; 
To  tarry  awhile,  till  the  turn  of  the  tide, 
In  the  heavenly  hush  of  the  echoless  side. 


182  TO  BE. 

Could  we  lift  a  white  finger  and  hail,  when  we  would, 
The  mystical  barge  from  the  mystical  shore, 
What  woes  would  we  break  from  to  beckon  and  wait, 
O  Death !  for  the  undreaded  dip  of  thy  oar : 
Glad  to  lay  off  our  lives,  as  our  robes  are  laid  off, 
Could  we  wear  them  again  when  but  rested  enough. 

But  it  never  has  been,  and  it  never  can  be  ; 
We  must  weave  out  our  lives  to  their  uttermost  end, 
Let  the  warp  and  the  woof  be  of  iron  or  gold, 
Wrought  with  roses  that  ravish,  or  thistles  that  rend  ; 
And  I  would  not  be  dead,  like  the  dead  in  the  grave, 
Not  for  rest  the  profoundest  that  death  ever  gave  ; 

For  't  is  sweet  to  exist,  it  is  blessed  to  be,  — 
To  share  of  the  sea,  and  the  stars,  and  the  sun, 
To  drink  of  the  air,  to  exult  in  the  light, 
To  be  of  the  wonderful  universe  —  One  ! 
Though  a  shadow  that  lurks  in  life's  valley  beguiles 
Our  feet  to  press  on  to  the  Infinite  Isles. 


"ONE  FOR  YOU,   AND   ONE  FOR  ME." 


for  you,  and  one  for  me" — 
Two  lads  under  an  orchard  tree, 

Counting  the  fruit}'  favors  cast 

Down  on  the  turf  by  last  night's  blast ; 

Yellow  apple,  and  mellow  pear, 

And  sunny  peach,  for  each  a  share. 

"  One  for  you,  and  one  for  me  " 

Truths  not  always  the  whole  truth  be. 

The  3'oung  cheeks  blush,  the  young  hearts  stir ; 

"  One  for  you,  and  one  for  me"  — 
And  both  for  her ! 

"  One  for  you,  and  one  for  me  "  — 
Two  youths  stand  where  the  waltzers  be, 
And  watch  the  face  of  one  fair  girl 
Float  like  a  rose  mid  the  rush  and  whirl. 
To  each  she  gives  a  word,  a  glance, 
A  witching  smile,  a  promised  dance  ; 
Then  drifts  the  line  of  dancers  down. 
Two  faces  flush,  two  foreheads  frown : 
One  mutters,  "  This  no  more  shall  be  ;  " 
The  other,  "  Not  so  equally 
We  stand  with  her ! " 


184        "ONE  FOR  YOU,  AND  ONE  FOR  ME." 

"  One  for  you,  and  one  for  me" — 
For  each  a  chance,  whate'er  it  be. 
Two  stern  men,  in  a  lonesome  place, 
Back  to  back  from  each  other  pace  ; 
They  halt  —  they  wheel  —  a  word  —  the  ring 
Of  pistols  hush  the  birds  that  sing ! 
Two  gallant  forms,  both  smitten,  lie 
Ten  paces  parted,  sure  to  die. 
"  One  for  you,  and  one  for  me  " — 
How  close  the  old  days  seem  to  be, 
With  both  for  her ! 

"  One  for  you,  and  one  for  me  " — 
Oh,  reconciling  memory, 
That  turns,  with  one  sweet,  magic  breath, 
To  gold  the  iron  chains  of  death ! 
"  Lift  me,"  said  one.     "  See,  each  forgives 
The  other,  whilst  that  other  lives." 
E'en  as  he  spoke,  a  marriage  train 
Swept  down  the  road  that  crossed  the  plain, 
And  each  saw  in  the  fair  }*oung  bride 
The  face  of  her  for  whom  he  died. 
"  Not  for  you,  and  not  for  me," 
The  chilling  lips  breathed  huskil}', 
"And  — both  for  her!" 


FAREWELL  TO   MEXICO. 


'"T^RUE  hearts,  stanch  friends,  dear  Mexico,  farewell ; 

Would  I  could  pluck  from  my  o'erflowing  heart 
Some  rare  bouquet  of  words  whose  depths  might  tell 
What  lips  can  speak  not,  nor  these  tears  impart. 
Between  me  and  the  shore  the  widening  blue 
Tells  of  the  deepening  seas  to  which  I  go  ; 
From  lessening  barks  floats  back  a  faint  "  Adieu." 
My  soul  replies  —  Farewell  to  Mexico  ! 


I  came  a  pilgrim  to  thy  storied  strand, 
I  go  like  one  who  into  exile  goes  ; 
Surely  I've  found,  in  this  enchanted  land, 
Some  region  where  the  fabled  lotus  grows. 
I  sigh  not  that  so  far  across  the  deep 
Fair  Louisiana's  orange-blossoms  blow ; 
I  only  watch  thy  fading  shores  and  weep, 
Because  I  bid  farewell  to  Mexico ! 


186  FAREWELL  TO  MEXICO. 

Bright  picture-land !  my  thoughts,  like  trailing  vines, 
Wind  back  thy  hills,  thy  vales,  thy  lakes  along ; 
Cling  round  thine  altars  and  th}'  ruined  shrines, 
And  twine  where  mysteries  and  where  memories  throng. 
Ye  skies,  in  which  resplendent  sunsets  burn, 
Ye  plains,  ye  palms,  ye  peerless  peaks  of  snow ! 
From  what  rare  realms  of  loveliness  I  turn 
To  sigh,  and  say  —  Farewell  to  Mexico  ! 


Now  faint  and  fainter  grows  the  line  of  shore. 
Upon  our  path  springs  the  pursuing  wind  ; 
Our  plunging  prow  tastes  the  blue  brine  once  more, 
While  like  a  plume  our  white  wake  streams  behind. 
Like  one  last  friend,  proud  Orizaba  stands, 
Against  the  sunset,  'neath  his  crown  of  snow : 
We  call  aloud,  we  wave  to  him  our  hands  ; 
He  fails,  he  fades, —  Farewell  to  Mexico ! 


ELEANOR. 


,  fair  Eleanor! 
Dear,  dainty,  and  delightful, 
Of 'visions  rare,  of  visions  fair, 

My  heart  she  renders  quite  full. 
Not  of  to-day  is  her  sweet  way, 

Nor  yester,  nor  to-morrow ; 
But  from  some  epoch  long  b}*-gone 
Each  charm  she  seems  to  borrow. 


Eleanor,  sweet  Eleanor ! 

I  watch  her  winning  graces, 
And  in  my  heart  at  once  upstart 

Full  twenty  lovely  faces 
That  hang  in  frames,  with  painters'  names 

Attached,  whose  fame  doth  render 
To  fleeting  beauty's  mortal  dower 

Their  own  immortal  splendor. 


188  ELEANOR. 

Eleanor,  quaint  Eleanor ! 

With  high-heeled  slippers  ringing, 
With  manner  meek,  with  patch  on  cheek, 

And  netted  workbag  swinging  — 
A  special  charm  —  on  rounded  arm 

From  elbow-sleeve  out  peeping, 
With  kerchief  crossed  on  pointed  waist, 

And  paniered  skirt  down  sweeping, — 


Toward  the  chapel  on  the  hill, 

This  morn  she  stepped  demurely : 
"  Some  sketch  unique  from  frame  antique," 

I  said,  "  has  wandered  surely !  " 
The  buckles  shone  on  shoe  and  zone, 

The  dainty  ruff  rose  starchly, 
As  'neath  her  quaint  poke-bonnet's  brim 

She  glanced  me  greeting  archty. 


Yonder,  in  that  high-backed  chair, 

Last  night  I  saw  her  sitting, 
Serenely  sweet,  in  raiment  neat, 

And  bus}r  with  her  knitting. 
How  quaint  her  dress,  how  smooth  her  tress, 

There  in  the  old  chair  rocking, — 
Intent,  O  cunning  little  maid, 

On  toeing  off  a  stocking ! 


ELEANOR.  189 


Eleanor,  wise  Eleanor ! 

Thus  gracing  her  own  graces, 
She  gains  a  dower  of  winsome  power 

Denied  more  perfect  faces. 
Ah  !  even  now,  as  her  young  brow 

Peeped  from  its  old-time  bonnet, 
She  seemed  like  modern  music  set 

To  some  mediaeval  sonnet. 


Eleanor,  rare  Eleanor ! 

A  truce  to  idle  rhyming ; 
Yet  doth  belong  ofttimes  to  song 

Tones  deeper  than  its  chiming ; 
And,  years  untold,  my  heart  will  hold, 

With  memories  sweet  to  cherish, 
Her  image,  quaintly  picturesque, 

Too  fair  a  thing  to  perish. 


MY    SOUL. 


~\  /TY  soul  unto  ray  heart  did  thus  complain : 
How  long,  O  jailer,  wilt  thou  here  detain 

My  restless  spirit? 

How  long  ere  I  may  seek,  in  j-onder  skies, 
The  hallowed  and  the  unconceived-of  prize 

That  souls  inherit? 

How  long  ere  Time,  the  High-priest,  comes  to  lay 
His  hand  upon  this  dungeon  door  of  clay 

And  break  its  bars, 

And  set  me  free  from  mortal  fears  and  feuds 
To  seek  the  grand  and  solemn  solitudes 

Among  the  stars  ? 

O  heart,  the  heavenly  spirit's  earthl}-  twin, 
O  mortal,  locking  the  immortal  in 

With  human  keys, 

Have  mercy !     Hide  awhile  th}*  watchful  face, 
And  let  my  prisoned  pinions  fly  to  trace 

Eternities ! 


MY  SOUL.  191 

And  3ret,  O  tender,  though  most  cruel  heart, 
I  've  much  to  thank  thee  for  before  we  part, 

To  rejoin  never, 

Ere  Time's  last  billows  I  for  aye  have  sounded, 
Ere  I  the  dim  and  misty  cape  have  rounded 

Of  the  Forever ! 


I  from  life's  clambering  vines  rich  blooms  have  plucked, 
And  from  its  sweetest  fruits  my  lips  have  sucked 

Delicious  juices ; 

And  I  have  quaffed  that  essence  from  above, 
That  only  heavenly  thing  —  pure,  faithful  Love  — 

Which  life  produces. 


The  golden  chalice  of  existence,  lifted  • 

High  on  the  wave,  into  my  grasp  was  drifted ; 

Its  luscious  wine 

In  purple  flow  upon  the  beaker  darkled, 
And  o'er  the  brim  to  lips  athirsting  sparkled 

In  draughts  divine ! 


In  thy  stern  keeping  I  have  grown  the  wings 
Now  fledged  and  pining  for  far  nobler  things, 

O  guardian  heart ! 

Too  long  I  've  fettered  been  to  earth's  cold  floor, 
I  've  loved  and  been  beloved  ;  there  is  no  more  — 

Now  let  us  part. 


192  MY  SOUL. 

I  hear  thee  build  the  scaffold  of  my  years, 

Of  sorrows,  smiles,  few  hopes,  and  many  fears, 

As  days  dimmish ; 

I  hear  thy  thick  throbs  fall  like  hammer  blows, 
Here  muffled  by  a  thorn,  and  there  a  rose,  — 

When  wilt  thou  finish? 

When  comes  the  hour,  at  midnight,  dawn,  or  day, 
When  thou  wilt  draw  these  bolts  and  bars  away 

With  bated  breath, 

And  ope  for  me  the  portals  of  this  place, 
And  bid  me  that  grim  executioner  face, 

Relentless  Death  ? 

Death,  at  whose  hands  we  find  our  noblest  birth  ; 
Who  frees  us  from  the  swaddling-clothes  of  earth 

And  all  its  harms  ; 
Who  rocks  the  cradle  of  Eternity, 
And  lays  us  loving,  grateful,  glad,  and  free, 

In  God's  own  arms ! 


THE   CHRISTENING. 


T  SAW  the  consecrated  water  fall, 

Unconscious  boy,  upon  thy  upturned  brow ; 
I  saw  the  solemn  rites,  I  heard  the  vow 
That  swore  to  shelter  thee  from  this  world's  thrall, 
And  aught  of  sin  that  might  thy  life  engall. 
E'en  while  the  vow  was  uttered,  saw  I  Care, 
And  Sorrow  with  his  thorn-embroidered  pall, 
And  siren-faced  Temptation  gathering  there. 
They  said,  "  Though  ye  may  love  and  guard  this  child, 
Who  is  of  earth  must  share  of  earthly  dross  ; 
Ye  cannot  keep  him  pure  and  undefiled. 
Through  us  o'er  trial  he  must  triumph  win ; 
We  sign  him  with  the  sign  of  life's  great  cross, 
That,  knowing  evil,  he  may  shrink  from  sin." 


MYSTERY. 


A  YE,  all  is  mystery.     Not  the  skies  alone, 

"With  their  unfathomed  secrecies  of  stars ; 
Nor  science  and  religion  with  their  wars  ; 
Nor  yet  earth's  lonely  lands  'twixt  zone  and  zone, 
With  hidden  histories  carved  in  voiceless  stone : 
But,  too,  sweet  friendship  that  has  left  its  scar 
In  passing,  and  the  precious  love  that 's  gone 
Out  like  a  tide,  and  left  us  on  the  bar 
Of  bitterness,  where  bright  waves  come  no  more ; 
Ourselves,  which  to  ourselves  are  mysteries  ; 
The  potent  spark  which  speaks  from  shore  to  shore ; 
Creeds,  which  such  hosts  of  cruel  doubt  involve ; 
Unbounded  thought  which  through  the  boundless  flies  ; 
And  life  that  problem  we  must  die  to  solve. 


THE    WIND. 


'"TVHE  wind,  that  poet  of  the  elements, 
•*-     To-night  comes  whistling  down  our  tropic  lanes, 

And  wakes  the  slumbrous  hours  with  sweet  refrains ; 

From  creamy  cups,  filled  with  magnolia  scents, 
His  luscious  lips  have  gained  rich  recompense 

For  scaling  those  green  towers ;  to  him  complains — 

While  shy  acacias  shake  their  tawny  manes — 

The  lonesome  lily  of  her  discontents ! 
The  jasmine,  with  her  white  soul  in  her  face, 

Bestows  her  holy  kisses  on  his  mouth  ; 

Before  the  pilgrim-minstrel  violets  place 
The  purple  censers  of  their  fervent  youth, 

And  nodding  poppies,  with  a  drowsy  grace, 

Anoint  his  feet  with  dream-oils  of  the  South. 


DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER? 


i. 
O  AIMING  among  the  daisies,  you  and  I, 

The  tangled  drifts  of  daisies,  glad  and  young, 
Beneath  the  azure  of  a  cloudless  skj*, 
The  zephyrs  catching,  as  the}-  wander  by, 

The  tender  accents  falling  from  j'our  tongue  — 

Don't  you  remember  ? 

n. 
A  country  glow  upon  my  girlish  cheek, 

As  side  by  side  the  wooded  slopes  we  rise, 
Or  in  the  fresh  spring  mould  the  beech-sprouts  seek, 
Or  part  the  rushes  by  the  winding  creek, 
Reading  sweet  secrets  in  each  other's  eyes  — 

Don't  ~ou  remember  ? 


m. 

The  soft  wind  tossing  back  m}'  light  brown  hair, 
The  robins  building  in  the  apple-trees  ; 

A  scent  of  roses  on  the  morning  air, 

The  birth  of  buds  about  us  everywhere, 

A  warm  and  tender  gladness  on  the  breeze  — 

Don't  you  remember? 


DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER?  197 

rv. 

The  brook  that  leaped  adown  the  mountain  height 
And  sped  away,  nor  ever  looked  behind, 

As  if  it  feared  the  stern  old  mountain  might 

Find  out  the  secret  of  its  hasty  flight, 
And  follow  on  its  truant  feet  to  bind  — 

Don't  you  remember? 

v. 

The  hills  we  climbed  through  merry  baths  of  dew 
To  catch  the  sun's  light  on  our  beaming  faces, 
Ere  he  might  cast  his  beams  on  hearts  less  true 
Than  yours  to  me,  Love,  or  than  mine  to  you, 
Wasting  the  treasure  of  his  first  embraces  — 

Don't  you  remember? 

VI. 

The  stream  meandering  through  the  vale  below, 

The  marshy  meadow's  reedy  banks  between, 
Where  the  coquettish  cowslips  flirted  so 
With  every  breeze,  or  bent  their  bright  lips  low 
And  kissed  the  water  from  their  beds  of  green  — 

Don't  you  remember? 

VII. 

The  bit  of  river  southward  of  the  town, 

Pale  in  the  dawn,  like  some  gray  lock  of  hair 
That  Winter  might  have  clipped  from  his  old  crown. 
And  given  to  Spring,  to  keep  when  he  was  gone, 
In  kindly  memory  of  him  to  wear  — 

Don't  you  remember  ? 


198  DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER? 

VIII. 

The  pollard  willow,  where  the  honey-bees 
Gave  concerts  in  the  branches  all  da}-  long ; 

The  blackbirds  whistling  in  the  hickory-trees ; 

The  bobolink  on  a  milkweed  in  the  breeze, 
Almost  committing  suicide  with  song  — 

Don't  you  remember  ? 

IX. 

The  fallen  petals  by  the  fruit  trees  given 

To  drape  with  white  the  emerald  robes  of  May, 
Along  the  country  lanes  and  roadsides  driven, 
As  if  some  young  bride  in  her  flight  to  Heaven 
Her  bridal  wreath  had  scattered  on  the  way  — 

Don't  you  remember  ? 

x. 

The  bloodroot  that  came  up  with  such  a  shriek 

Whene'er  we  pulled  it  from  its  hiding-places  ; 
The  plants  and  mosses  that  we  used  to  seek, 
While  Earth  with  her  rent  bosom  could  not  speak, 
But  as  we  robbed  her  breathed  hard  in  our  faces  — 

Don't  you  remember  ? 

XI. 

The  old  beech  woods  upon  the  hillsides  steep, 
WThere  the  wild  honeysuckle  always  grew  ; 
Fair  golden  harvests  that  you  loved  to  reap, 
Sweet  golden  harvests  that  I  loved  to  keep, 

Blessed  by  the  sunshine  and  baptized  with  dew  — 

Don't  vou  remember? 


DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER?  199 

XII. 

The  quaint  old  garden  with  its  gravelled  walks, 

Its  grass-plots  starred  with  golden  dandelions, 
Its  daffodils,  May-pinks,  and  hollyhocks, 
Its  white  syringa  with  sweet-smelling  stalks, 
And  neighbors  coming  after  slips  and  scions  — 

Don't  you  remember  ? 

XIII. 

There  'neath  my  chin  you  held  the  buttercup, 
Some  truth  you  saucily  declared  to  prove  ; 
Then  cried,  when  bashfulty  my  eyes  would  droop, 
"  A  girl's  blush  is  the  flag  her  heart  runs  up 
To  signal  its  surrender  unto  Love  !  "  — 

Don't  you  remember  ? 

XIV. 

And  then  3*011  clasped  my  brown  hand  in  j'our  own  ; 

You  know  how  wilfullj*  you  could  persist ; 
There  was  a  strange  new  music  in  your  tone, 
Thrilling  and  sweet,  —  well,  we  were  all  alone, 

I  may  mistake,  but — were  my  lips  not  kissed?  — 

Don't  you  remember? 

xv. 

Then  how  the  village  bells  rang  out  one  day, 
How  joyfully  we  two  walked  side  by  side  ; 
The  church  door  opened  and  we  knelt  to  pray, 
Friends  crowded  round  their  kindly  words  to  say, 

And  shake  our  hands,  and  some  one  called  me  bride  — 

Don't  you  remember? 


200  DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER? 

XVI. 

Our  bark  since  then  has  touched  on  many  strands ; 

Our  wandering  feet  have  roamed  in  many  climes, 
Our  brows  been  kissed  by  suns  of  far-off  lands ; 
New  friends,  dear  Love,  have  clasped  our  willing  hands, 

But  the  old  times,  the  ever  dear  old  times — 

We  both  remember ! 


ANGELE. 


T  TOW  didst  thou  rest,  dear  Love,  last  night 

In  thy  narrow,  narrow  bed? 
Was  the  young  rose  quiet  that,  waxen  white, 
Kept  watch  by  thy  hidden  head, 

Angele ! 
Watch  by  thy  hidden  head? 


What  did  the  c}T)ress  say  to  thee 

As  it  drooped  by  thy  young  feet  ? 
Did  it  tell  thee,  darling,  it  stood  for  me, 
And  bid  thee  to  slumber  sweet, 

My  Love ! 

Bid  thee  to  slumber,  Sweet? 
9» 


202  ANGtfLE. 

Now  has  my  heart  forgot  its  strength, 

And  forgot  its  sturdj'  pride  ; 
And  my  life  a  dream  is  of  dreary  length, 
With  thee  unto  it  denied, 

Angele ! 
Thee  unto  it  denied. 


All  night  I  strode  the  cold  sea  beach ; 
And  the  waves  came  groping  there, 
For  a  treasure  wailing  beyond  their  reach 
With  an  unavailing  pra}-er, 

Dear  Love ! 
Wild,  unavailing  prayer. 


Had  thejT  not  chilled  thy  bosom  white, 

And  exulted  o'er  thy  charms, 
And  then  cast  thee  forth  to  the  outer  night 
From  satiate,  kindless  arms,  — 

Poor  child ! 
Careless  and  cruel  arms? 


Had  they  not  bruised  thy  forehead  fair, 

And  betra^yed  thy  tender  check, 
And  the  sea-weeds  twisted  into  thy  hair, 
And  stifled  thy  dying  shriek,  — 

O  Love ! 
Stifled  thy  dying  shriek? 


203 


The  salt  sea  spray  leaps  up  again 

To  this  breast  unto  thee  denied  ; 
How  I  curse  each  billow  that  dares  profane 
The  brow  thou  hast  sanctified, 

Angele  ! 
Kissed,  and  so  sanctified. 


I  hear  the  poniards  of  the  rain, 

As  they  stab  the  earth  in  sleep  ; 
But  the}7  cannot  smite  thee  back  to  thy  pain, 
I  buried  thee  down  too  deep, 

Angele ! 
Buried  thee  down  too  deep. 


Beneath  the  muffling  moss  and  grass 

The}'  may  slide,  and  cringe,  and  creep  ; 
And  the  under  roots  of  thy  cypress  pass, 
But  cannot  disturb  thy  sleep, 

Lost  one ! 
Cannot  disturb  thy  sleep. 


Though  swift  they  slip,  and  hide  perchance 

Where  thy  gleaming  headboard  stands, 
The}*  can  never  into  thy  young  face  glance, 
They  cannot  unfold  thy  hands, 

Angele ! 
Poor  little  folded  hands. 


204  ANG£LE. 

The  rain !  't  is  on  my  forehead  yet,  — 

For  my  feet  there  is  no  rest ; 
And  the  skies  are  dark  with  a  dull  regret ; 
They  've  drowned  the  moon  in  the  west,  — 

Ah  me ! 
Drowned  the  moon  in  the  west. 


Didst  sleep,  my  Love,  the  whole  night  long 

With  thy  white  hands  on  thy  breast, 
And  the  fresh  young  lilies  thy  locks  among, 
As  when  thou  wert  laid  to  rest, 

Fair  girl ! 
Tenderly  laid  at  rest? 


All  night  was  thy  sweet  sleep  profound, 

Was  thy  clinging  shroud  unstirred, 
Was  thy  slim  grave  undisturbed  by  a  sound, 
No  echoes  of  anguish  heard, 

Angele ! 
Echoes  of  anguish  heard  ? 


The  rosebuds  in  thy  fingers  prest, 

Did  they  dare,  dear  Love,  to  die? 
They  were  buried  alive  upon  thy  breast,  — 
I  envy  them  as  they  lie, 

Beloved ! 
Where  it  were  bliss  to  die. 


ANGELE.  205 


Yet  falls  the  drear,  unpitying  rain  ; 

And  the  lips  of  night  are  pale, 
As  they  kiss,  on  yon  tumultuous  main, 
The  wings  of  the  passing  gale, 

Dear  one ! 
Stormy  wings  of  the  gale. 


All  night  I  strode  the  beaten  beach, 

Where  the  waves  knelt  prone  and  pale, 
With  their  white  lips  moaning,  in  broken  speech, 
Thy  name,  my  beloved  Angele, 

Thy  name ! 
Moaning  for  thee,  Angele. 


They  sought  my  life,  the  billows  blue, 

And  I  did  not  stand  apart ; 
There  is  no  more  harm  that  a  foe  can  do 
When  he  has  broken  the  heart, 

Dear  one ! 
Broken  a  loving  heart. 


The  tempest  rode  the  whirling  world, 

And  the  sea  arose  in  might ; 
And  I  rushed  where  billows  the  blackest  swirled, 
1     And  bade  them  my  life  to  smite,  — 

Ha!  Ha! 
Vainly  I  bade  them  smite  ! 


206  ANG£LE. 

,1 

Why,  thou  hast  left  thy  grave,  Angele ! 

And  thy  shroud  floats  on  the  deep ; 
There  it  beckons  to  me  —  ah  !  vrhy  so  pale  ? 
My  darling !  couldst  thou  not  sleep,  — 

Not  sleep? 
Couldst  thou  not  from  me  sleep  ? 


Thy  tresses  drip  with  ocean  damps, 
And  thy  dear  lips,  do  they  move? 
All  the  lamps  are  out  in  night's  golden  camps, 
But  never  the  lamps  of  love, 

Angele ! 
Quenchless  are  lamps  of  love. 


I  thought  thee  prone,  like  some  young  nun, 

All  at  peace  in  her  lone  cell ; 
On  thy  breast  a  cross,  all  thy  penance  done, 
Who  dared  to  dissolve  the  spell 

Of  sleep, 
Kissing  thy  eyelids  down  ? 


The  black  locks  of  the  swart  queen  Night 

Are  all  trailing  on  the  sea  ; 
But  they  cannot  veil  thee  out  of  my  sight, 
With  little  hands  stretched  to  me, 

My  Love ! 
Little  hands  stretched  to  me. 


ANG£LE.  207 

Weird  voices  answer  from  the  shore 
To  the  shout  of  storm-lost  waves, 
And  the  solemn  pines  with  sympathant  roar 
Kespond  from  the  forest  naves. 

And  chant,  — 
Chant,  like  exultant  braves ! 


What  phosphorescent  glearn  now  plays 

Where  the  crested  waters  sweep? 
Ha  !  the  billows  burn  with  the  frenzied  gaze 
Of  63*  es  that  no  more  will  sleep,  — 

Eyes  doomed 
Never  again  to  sleep ! 


Thy  grave  is  empty !     From  the  night 

I  can  hear  thee  calling  me  ; 
And  each  billow's  crest  is  a  beacon  light 
To  guide  me  afar  to  thee, 

My  Own ! 
Guide  me  afar  to  thee. 


Oh,  wait !  Angele,  fear  not  the  dark, 
And  fear  not  the  tempest's  breath  ! 
I  will  come  to  thee  in  a  swift,  lone  bark, 
Steered  by  the  helmsman  Death, 

Angele ! 
Wait,  and  fear  not  the  dark  ! 


THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL. 


A    SKELETON  once  ran  away  with  a  ghost,  — 

Oh,  the  graveyard  wall  it  was  high  and  damp  ! 
But  no  sentinel's  challenge  of  "  Who  goes  there?" 
Rung  down  o'er  the  dead  in  their  marble  camp. 
So  they  clambered  high,  and  they  clambered  low, 
And  never  a  corpse  turned  over  to  throw 
From  his  mouldering  e3'es  a  forbidding  stare, 
To  check  the  flight  of  this  singular  pair. 

The  skeleton,  he  had  lain  quiet  for  years 

In  his  handsome  coffin  of  precious  wood, 
Maintaining  a  dignified  attitude  there, 

Just  as  a  virtuous  skeleton  should. 
The  ghost  had  belonged  to  a  beautiful  maid, 
Left  here  by  herself  only  yesterday,  dead,  — 
She  who  never  before  had  anywhere  gone 
Without  some  respectable  chaperon. 

They  buried  her  here,  in  her  fresh,  sweet  youth, 
Like  a  flower  that  we  put  away  to  press, 

With  a  lingering  look  and  a  tender  touch, 
In  the  first  bright  bloom  of  its  loveliness, 


THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL.  209 

And  here  she  was  now,  by  a  }'oung  man's  side,  — 
Young,  for  he  ceased  to  grow  old  when  he  died  ; 
And,  although  he  was  heartless,  his  gallant  bones 
Were  moved  at  the  sight  of  the  girl's  tombstones. 

And  that  giddy  young  ghost,  she  could  n't  keep  still ; 

The  coffin  was  close,  and  the  grave  was  so  damp ! 
And  how  could  she  judge  of  the  fit  of  her  shroud, 

Or  the  st}-le  of  her  coiffure,  without  any  lamp  ? 
The  courteous  skeleton,  lying  next  door, 
Dismayed,  heard  the  ghost  her  sad  trials  deplore  ; 
And,  though  hitherto  quite  resigned  to  his  fate, 
He  now  felt  impelled  to  articulate. 

He  struggled  to  sit,  and  he  struggled  to  stand ; 

But  his  joints  would  n't  work,  and  his  limbs  felt  queer : 
"  I  declare,  I  've  grown  loose  in  my  habits,"  he  said, 

"Though  my  habits  were  '  fast'  when  I  came  to  sleep 

here." 

He  wriggled  his  jaws,  and  he  nodded  his  head ; 
His  long  folded  fingers  he  cautiously  spread  ; 
Then  with  one  supreme  effort  stepped  out  in  the  air : 
The  ghost  of  the  girl  he  found  already  there. 

The  slender  moon  lay  in  the  summery  sky 

Like  the  paring  of  somebody's  great  thumb-nail, 

And,  under  its  shining,  the  skeleton  looked, 

To  the  pretty  young  ghost,  rather  mouldy  and  stale. 


210       .  '  THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL. 

The  meeting  was  awkward  in  man}*  respects,  — 

As  seems  very  natural,  if  one  reflects,  — 

For  the  ghost's  taste  in  dress  could  now  naught  avail  her, 

And  the  skeleton  was  not  right  fresh  from  his  tailor. 

They  stood  in  Death's  horrible  kingdom  of  Hush, 

By  his  dungeons  of  dumbness,  cold,  dreary,  and  deep ; 
While,  ripe  on  night's  mystical  prairies  above, 

Grew  the  harvest  of  stars  which  the  morning  would 

reap; 

And  meteors  —  fire-laden  argosies  —  sailed 
The  gulfs  of  the  air,  where  no  passing  voice  hailed 
To    question    whence    came    the}*,   or    where   were   they 

bound, 
O'er  the  oceans  of  space  in  the  silence  profound. 

And  yonder,  and  yonder,  and  yonder  revealed, 
"Were  unlimited  realms  for  unlimited  flight. 

Well,  what  could  that  ghost  and  that  skeleton  do? 
Like  some  mortals,  the  two  fell  in  love  at  first  sight. 

They  stood  there  alone,  and  the  skeleton  saw 

That  here  was  his  chance  for  no  mother-in-law ! 

For  the  rest?     Opportunity  forms  the  base 

Of  most  of  the  sins  of  the  human  race. 

There  were  none  to  consult  with  regard  to  each  other,  — 
The  ghost  quite  forgot  to 'ask,  Was  he  rich? 

He  did  not  inquire  if  her  dear  great-grandfather 
Made  candles,  or  soap,  or  had  known  how  to  stitch. 


THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL.  211 

She  felt  too  light-headed  for  cavil  or  question  ; 
He  felt  too  polite  to  make  any  suggestion  ; 
And  both,  perhaps,  felt  how  awkward  't  would  be 
For  either  to  climb  up  a  family-tree  ! 


So  joined  they  their  hands,  these  two  innocent  spectres, 

Nor  vowed  they  such  vows  as  are  blest  from  above ; 
They  talked  not  of  loving  till  "  death  do  us  sever," 

But  swore,  "  naught  shall  sever  us  while  we  both  love." 
Remember,  the  maid  was  a  very  young  woman,  — 
A  maiden's  first  lover  oft  seems  superhuman  ; 
And  as  for  that  skeleton,  —  well,  't  was  not  odd  he 
Should  say  to  himself  that  the  ghost  was  no-bod}*. 


Their  kisses  were  pure  as  the  pure  polar  ice, 

And  as  bloodless  and  cold  as  a  toad's  foot  at  noon  ; 

And  misty  and  chill  was  their  strange  wedding-ring, 
For  it  was  the  wide  ring  that  encircled  the  moon. 

Much  talking  there  was  not,  for  mere  lack  of  tongues  ; 

Much  sighing  there  was  not,  for  mere  lack  of  lungs  ; 

But  the  wedding  went  on,  without  prayer,  without  priest, 

Without  altar,  or  organ,  or  favor,  or  feast. 


Then  the  skeleton  climbed,  and  the  ghost  she  soared ; 

Over  graves  of  the  "  oldest  and  best "  they  groped  ; 
But  the  beds  lay  deep,  and  the}'  slept  so  sound, 

Not  a  slumberer  found  out  the  pair  had  eloped. 


212  THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL. 

Not  one  marble  door  slid  out  of  its  place  ; 

Not  one  woman  lifted  a  peering  face  ; 

For  comfort,  go  purchase  a  grave}-ard  "  share,"  — 

The  neighbors  all  mind  their  own  business  there. 

Up,  over  the  wall,  where  the  whole  night  long 
All  slim}-  and  sleepy  the  green  lizards  hide, 
Beyond  the  grim  gates  of  the  Garden  of  Graves, 
The  skeleton  hurries  his  ghostly  young  bride. 
Up,  up,  o'er  the  roofs  of  the  slumbering  town  ; 
On,  on,  where  the  river  goes  hurrying  down,  — 
'Twas  the  oddest  sight  in  the  world,  I'm  sure, 
This  bridegroom  and  bride  on  their  wedding  tour. 

The  owl  on  her  branch  of  an  old  hollow  tree 

Uplifted  her  lids  at  a  sight  so  new, 
And  ruffled  her  feathers,  and  hooted  aloud 

Her  impudent  query,  "  To  whoo?     To  whoo? 
As  onward  the}'  sped,  and  a  dew  of  affright 
Stood  out  on  the  face  of  the  startled  night, 
And  the  white  little  moon  slipped  under  a  cloud, 
At  the  gleam  of  the  young  woman's  wedding  shroud. 

And  somebody  says  that  the  Yucca  rang  out 
That  night  from  its  tower  of  pallid  bells, 

As  the  pair  went  by,  a  chime  that  seemed 
Half  wedding  marches,  half  funeral  knells  ; 

And  the  tall  green  cane  and  the  nodding  rice 

Bowed  down  but  once,  though  they  shivered  thrice, 


THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL.  213 

As  over  them  sped,  most  horribly  human, 

This  frame  of  a  man  and  this  ghost  of  a  woman  ! 

How  vast  their  domain  in  the  regions  of  space  ! 

How  starry  their  night-times,  their  mornings  how  sunny, 
Whilst  they  dine  on  that  bliss  we  poor  mortals  know  well, 

A  course  of  true  love,  and  for  dessert  no  money  ! 
Though  she  had  her  own  stage  of  existence,  this  bride, 
The  couple  were  never  once  known  to  ride ; 
But  from  furtherest  star  to  earth's  furtherest  ocean, 
They  travelled  content  with  their  own  locomotion ! 

They  have  their  own  sport,  such  as  suiteth  them  best ! 

When  we  shrink  at  the  shriek  of  the  wind,  sometimes, 
'T  is  onty  the  skeleton  whistling  a  tune 

He  is  trying  to  set  to  his  pretty  wife's  rhymes ! 
To  ocean  they  carry  the  dangerous  breeze 
That  startles  the  sailor  with  suddening  seas, 
And  who  has  not  heard,  mid  the  tempest's  wild  battle, 
The  skeleton's  fingers  his  window-sash  rattle  ? 

And'oft,  when  we  lie  on  our  pillows  and  quake 

At  the  sound  of  the  shutters  that  clatter  so  loud, 
'T  is  only  the  skeleton  scurrying  by, 

With  a  rattle  of  bones  and  the  swish  of  a  shroud. 
Up,  over  the  roof  of  my  silent  bedchamber, 
I  often  and  oft  do  hear  the  two  clamber, 
With  footsteps  that  are  not  of  earth  or  of  air, 
Yet  are  here,  and  are  j'onder,  and  ever}'where. 


214  THE  SPECTRE'S  BRIDAL. 

Their  honeymoon  ?     Heaven  knows  how  that  was  spent ! 

There's  a  watering-place,   maj^be,   somewhere   in   the 

clouds, 
For  a  bride  and  a  groom  whose  outfits  consist 

Of  nothing  else  under  the  moon  but  their  shrouds  ! 
The  current  expenses,  we  know,  of  this  pair 
Could  not  have  been  much,  since  the}'  lived  upon  air  ; 
As  man}-  young  pairs,  more  romantic  than  prudent, 
Have  lovingly  tried  to,  but  found  that  they  could  n't ! 

They  were  happ}-  ?    Of  course  !     She  never  had  servants, 

He  never  was  known  to  stay  out  late  at  night ; 
She  ran  up  no  bills,  he  ran  no  fast  horses ; 

She  had  no  dressmaker,  he  never  got  "  tight." 
They  lived  a  most  joyous  Bohemian  life, 
This  skeleton  grim  and  his  airy  }-oung  wife ; 
He  thinks  that  a  bride  is  a  "  light  weight"  to  carry, 
She  thinks  a  dead  girl  is  a  fool  not  to  marry. 

And  so,  hand  in  hand,  from  the  dawn  unto  dawn, 
Knowing  well  in  each  other  their  happiness  lies, 

They  wander  mid  nebulae,  star-dust,  and  moons, 
Two  jubilant  gypsies  that  camp  in  the  skies. 

Such  a  bridegroom  and  bride  seem  rather  absurd, 

But  of  matches  as  odd  we  have  all  of  us  heard  ; 

And,  if  we  but  think  of  it,  man,  at  the  most, 

Is  only  a  skeleton  wed  to  a  ghost. 


NEXT  YEAR. 


nr^HIS  afternoon,  as  through  the  fields  we  strolled, 

Our  shadows,  side  by  side,  went  on  before, 
As  though  the  path,  beneath  our  feet  unrolled, 

Two  dusky  guides  went  forward  to  explore. 
Our  way  was  mid  the  honey  haunts  of  bees, 

Past  scented,  hay-ripe  meadow-lands,  and  where, 
In  streams,  by  mill-wheels  lashed  to  mimic  seas, 

The  weeping  willow  laved  her  lavish  hair. 
Thy  lip  was  laughing,  and  thine  eye  was  clear  — 
"  Remember  me,"  thou  saidst,  "  this  time  next  year." 

Birds,  gayly  winged,  like  painted  shuttles,  shot 

Now  in,  now  out,  among  the  summer  leaves  ; 
Oft  with  her  woofs  —  stray  threads  her  loom  has  caught 

Unconscious  Nature  mortal  destinies  weaves. 
The  softened  sunshine  sifted  through  the  trees ; 

Mosaicked  light  and  shadow  'neath  us  lay  ; 
The  gurgling  stream,  the  voices  of  the  bees, 

To  perfect  music  set  the  perfect  day ; 
While  I,  beside  thee,  eager  bent  to  hear 
Thee  say,  "  Remember  me  this  time  next  year." 


216  NEXT  YEAR. 

Next  year !     What  words  I  spoke  —  what  answer  thou ! 

Why  should  I  strive  those  spectres  to  recall? 
Suffice  it,  down  the  ways  that  thou  wilt  go, 

By  thine  my  shadow  nevermore  will  fall. 
The  scented  summer-time  will  come  again, 

With  busy  beaks  the  birds  be  building  here, 
The  meadows  be  as  sweet,  as  ripe  the  grain, 

The  brooks  as  brown  as  now,  "  this  time  next  year ; " 
While  I  afar  shall  feel  thy  path  I  bless, 
Since  thus  that  path  will  know  one  shadow  less. 


EMBRYO. 


T  FEEL  a  poem  in  my  heart  to-night, 

A  still  thing  growing  ; 
As  if  the  darkness  to  the  outer  light 

A  song  were  owing : 
A  something  strangely  vague,  and  sweet,  and  sad, 

Fair,  fragile,  slender; 
Not  tearful,  yet  not  daring  to  be  glad, 

And  oh,  so  tender ! 

It  may  not  reach  the  outer  world  at  all, 

Despite  its  growing ; 
Upon  a  poem-bud  such  cold  winds  fall 

To  blight  its  blowing, 
But,  oh,  whatever  may  the  thing  betide, 

Free  life  or  fetter, 
My  heart,  just  to  have  held  it  till  it  died, 

Will  be  the  better ! 


10 


THE   PRINTING-PRESS. 


OD  said,  "  Let  there  be  light."    Lo !  at  his  word, 

Back  from  the  dome  profound,  the  velvet  veil 
Of  darkness  swiftly  swept,  "  and  there  was  light." 

From  chaos  wrought,  the  perfect  Earth  awoke, 
Thrilled  to  her  depths,  and  her  perfection  knew  ; 
Each  welcoming  atom  its  completeness  felt, 
And  the  first  sun-flood  fell  upon  the  world. 

The  primal  Morn  came  with  her  opulent  arms, 

From  which,  o'erfalling,  dropped  delightful  down 

The  fructifying  rays,  the  joy  of  warmth, 

The  sweet  surprise  of  color.     Fragrance  and  Shade, 

Like  loving  sisters,  in  green  valleys  smiled, 

And  from  the  purple  mists  the  hills  arose 

And  gazed  appalled  across  each  other's  shoulders. 

'Neath  the  concentred  splendors  of  the  orb 

That  burned  above  them  its  miraculous  fires, 

Primeval  forests  quickened  into  life, 

And  their  white  blood  began  its  circulant  course. 


THE  PRINTING-PRESS.  219 

i 

Deep  in  its  dungeon  lay  the  tin}'  seed ; 
A  sunbeam  with  transfiguring  touch  fell  there, 
And  lo  !  a  germ  of  forests  yet  to  be  ! 
The  lowliest  weed  that  late  had  lain  asleep, 
Worthless  and  chill  on  the  benumbed  soil, 
Became  at  once  a  tome,  on  which  was  writ 
The  law  as  on  the  giants  of  creation. 

Upon  their  trembling  petals  roses  felt 

The  warm  kiss  of  Omnipotence,  and  breathed 

Responsive  sweetness. 

Stately  palms  upheld 
Adoring  branches.     Perfect  lilies  raised 
Their  silver  cups,  and  drank  in  new  perfection. 
The  rocks,  the  plains,  the  everlasting  seas, 
Stirred  to  their  centres. 

The  creature  learned  the  law 

Creation  made  for  him.     Beasts  roamed  the  wood  ; 
In  the  first  gardens  sang  the  first  glad  birds  ; 
The  waters  became  vital :  fields  grew  fair  ; 
Blossoms  assumed  new  dyes,  the  sky  new  tints, 
The  heights  new  grandeur.     Life  was  in  the  world. 

From  out  abysmal  space  Night  stole,  and  threw 
Her  strange  and  sombre  shadow  over  all ; 
And  from  the  hollow  of  her  dusky  hand 
Flung  darkness  back  upon  the  sea  and  shore. 

"  Let  there  be  light,"  God  said,  "  and  there  was  light." 


220  THE  PRINTING-PRESS. 

From  luminous  fountains  of  the  sky  it  poured 
In  tempered  torrents  of  effulgence  down. 
From  wide  horizon  to  horizon  rolled 
Stupendous  constellations.     Orion's  belt 
Gleamed  where  the  mighty  hunter  stood  on  high, 
And  held  his  trophies  in  the  glare  of  suns 
Fresh  from  Creation's  hand. 

The  white  stars  burst 
Into  eternal  blossom.     Unknown  spheres 
At  mystic  altars  of  the  Infinite 
Kindled  their  never  quenching  fires,  and  swung 
To  their  supernal  orbits. 

The  asteroids 

Clung  like  a  flock  of  frightened  birds  unto 
The  azure  emp3'rean.     Helmeted  Mars 
Stood  with  his  lurid  visor  up,  and  dared 
Defiant  worlds. 

Planets  took  up  their  march 
In  swift  obedience  to  the  silent  laws, 
And  went  their  way  flinging  through  boundless  space, 
From  never  empty  lamps,  perpetual  light. 

Suns  and  their  satellites  their  radiance  blent 
With  grand  celestial  mj'steries,  yet  kept 
A  secret  from  the  earth. 

The  Southern  Cross 

Hurled  its  red  jewels  on  the  astral  deep, 
And  left  them  there  to  glow  forevermore. 
From  stellar  silences  young  Lyra  looked, 


THE  PRINTING-PRESS.  221 

And  the  sidereal  Scorpion  grandly  stretched 
Across  the  shining  skies  his  luminous  length. 

Filled  with  a  sudden  glory,  lesser  orbs 

Flashed  down  the  dizzying  heights  their  lambent  rays, 

Trembling  to  find  themselves  so  glorious. 

Slender  with  youth,  the  primogenial  moon 
Her  golden  hammock  in  the  zenith  hung, 
And,  swaying  in  the  far  refulgent  fields, 
Shot  scintillant  arrows  over  land  and  sea. 

In  clustered  splendor  on  the  sapphire  heights, 
Complete  in  lustrous  numbers,  smiled  afar 
The  Pleiadean  sisters. 

Over  all, 

Resplendent,  hung  the  unmeasured  Milky  Way,  — 
A  bridge  of  worlds,  arched  over  countless  worlds  ; 
And  drowned  lay  darkness  in  the  drenching  light. 

Earth  was  ;  Light  was  ;  Man  was  :  and  all  the  world 
Thrilled  to  the  harmonies  of  Genesis. 

The  moon  and  stars  and  sun  shone  on.     Light  was : 
Through  change  and  countcrchangc  it  lived  unchanged ; 
Still  was  there  heard  a  voice  crying  aloud, 
44  Let  there  be  light !  — yea,  yea  !  let  there  be  light ! " 
It  was  a  voice  that  issued  from  men's  souls, 


222  THE  PRINTING-PRESS. 

From  hearts  that  burned  with  deep,  ambitious  fires, 
With  yearnings  vague,  and  indeterminate  wants. 

The  nations  of  the  earth  took  up  the  cry : 

Men  wrought,  aud  delved,  and  builded  monuments. 

The}7  made  the  stars  their  books,  and  from  them  drew 

Portent  and  inspiration.     Invention  rose 

And  flourished  in  the  land.     Science  was  great ; 

And  Architecture,  with  luxurious  hand, 

Inwrought  her  temples  with  rare  ivories, 

And  sate  her  palaces  on  precious  stones. 

if 

Cities  sprang  up  on  many  a  verdant  site : 
Palrn3Ta's  pillars  gemmed  the  Assyrian  plain  ; 
The  ships  ofTarshish  bore  the  d3'es  of  Tyre, 
Odorous  freight  of  precious  cedar  wood, 
And  spices  from  the  famed  Phoenician  coast, 
Toward  the  palaces  of  Solomon. 

Damascus  shone  beneath  the  Syrian  sun  ; 
And,  great  within  her  hundred  brazen  gates, 
"Where  mid  the  hanging  gardens  proudly  rose 
The  haughty  grandeur  of  Semiramis, 
Sat  towered  Babylon. 

Persepolis 

Became  the  pride  and  "  glory  of  the  East," 
And  by  the  Murdusht  meadows  builded  up 
Her  temples,  tombs,  and  marble  monuments. 
Kingdoms  and  kings  ruled  and  were  overruled : 
Egypt,  and  proud  Assyria,  and  Chaldea, 


THE  PRINTING-PRESS.  223 

The  classic  three,  rose  to  their  height  in  power, 
Then  toppled  to  the  deep  and  echoing  tomb 
Of  mighty  things  that  were. 

The  bearded  scribe 

Sculptured  the  stone,  or  traced  with  patient  hand 
The  labored  page  of  the  papyrus  leaf 
Graved  with  the  stylus,  or,  in  precious  inks 
Of  fluent  metals,  dipped  the  JS'ilotic  reed. 

Meanwhile  from  crumbling  places  tottered  down 
The  bricks  of  Babylon,  with  the  cuneiform 
Inscriptions  of  dead  heroes  and  great  kings. 

From  peak  to  peak  of  the  vast  centuries 

Time,  slowl}'  stepped.     Creed  after  creed  was  born, 

And  swept  in  turn  from  off  the  face  of  earth. 

From  him  who  was  King  Suddhodana's  son, 

To  him  in  gardens  of  Gethsemane, 

Men  turned,  and  hungered,  and  were  fed,  and  drank 

The  subtle  essence  of  Divinity,  — 

Were  strong,  were  sad,  were  humble,  were  rejoiced, 

Grew  great  with  earth's  best  greatness  in  their  lives, 

And  passed  to  death  with  fortitude  sublime. 

Yet  from  their  burial-places  came  the  Voice, 

Calling  from  what  was  not,  "  Let  there  be  light !  " 

As  in  the  earliest  moments  of  the  morn 

A  tender  radiance  gives  sweet  hints  that  Dawn 

Is  smiling  at  the  Orient's  shining  gates, 

So  came  a  strange  yet  penetrating  gleam 


224  THE  PRINTING-PRESS. 

Across  the  mental  shadows  of  the  time, 
And,  flickering  in  the  Orient  of  men's  hopes, 
Stole  toward  an  ancient  city  on  the  Rhine, 
And  entered  at  the  stony  gates  of  Mainz. 

It  wandered  past  the  famous  Eichelstein, 

Past  Roman  ruins  where  the  imperial  hand 

Of  Charlemagne  its  lasting  impress  left ; 

Traversed  the  crooked  streets  and  narrow  ways  ; 

Went  out  among  the  roofs,  the  lofty  towers, 

The  homes  and  altars  of  the  quaint  old  town. 

It  hovered  o'er  the  pillow  of  the  priest ; 

It  glittered  past  the  scholar  and  the  sage  ; 

It  turned  from  luxury's  couch  and  pride's  demands, 

And  entered  where,  within  his  lowl\-  room, 

An  eager  artisan  bent  above  his  work 

With  busy  fingers  and  fast-beating  heart. 

Here  stayed  the  ra}',  and  dropped  its  light  divine 

Upon  the  earnest  brow  of  Gutenberg. 

Beneath  its  radiance  Genius  recognized 
Her  child,  and  with  a  kindling  kiss  woke  all 
The  latent  fires  within  his  eager  soul. 
'Neath  that  inspiring  touch  his  hand  became 
The  chosen  instrument  to  set  the  torch 
Of  quenchless  progress  on  Time's  mighty  gates. 

As  from  the  seed  the  generous  verdure  grows 
To  glad  the  earth,  — as  from  the  acorn  spring 


THE  PRINTING-PRESS.  225 

The  lordh*  forests  holding  in  their  depths 
The  ships  of  commerce  and  the  wheels  of  war, 
The  food  to  fill  the  ravenous  mouths  of  steam, 
Traffic's  broad  roads,  and  cities  yet  unbuilt,  — 
So  that  white  ray  that  fell  on  Rhenish  Mainz, 
And  rested  there  four  hundred  years  ago, 
Was  the  small  spark  from  which  has  grown  apace 
A  lustre,  searching  and  far  reaching,  shed 
Upon  remotest  corners  of  the  globe. 
Then  it  illumed  a  set  of  wooden  blocks  ; 
Now,  from  ten  million  million  fonts  of  type, 
It  glitters  in  the  firmament  of  Time. 

'T  is  light,  which  grows  as  grows  the  banyan-tree ; 
Each  slender  branch  becomes  in  turn  a  root, 
Each  root  again  sends  up  its  flexile  branch, 
Till  one  perpetual  range  of  vigorous  growth, 
Whose  limits  mortal  man  may  not  assign, 
Marks  its  unending  march  around  the  world. 

As  some  far  sun  astronomers  have  found, 
Whose  burnished  raj-s,  like  plummets,  were  cast  down, 
In  the  beginning,  through  the  seas  of  space,  — 
Rays  which  must  fall  through  ages  yet  to  come, 
Sounding  eternities  on  their  way  to  meet 
The  gaze  of  races  still  unborn, — even  so 
Must  spread  the  vivid,  permeating  beams 
Of  that  great  light  John  Gutenberg  discerned 
In  thought's  broad  universe,  the  PRINTING-PRESS. 
10*  o 


226  THE  PRINTING-PRESS. 

The  king  it  is  that  stands  behind  all  thrones, 
With  power  boundless  as  the  realms  of  space  ; 
In  one  firm  hand  the  lamp  of  knowledge  burns, 
The  other,  reason's  flambeau  holds  aloft, 
And  the  twin  flames  illuminate  the  world. 

There  is  no  good  it  cannot  multiply ; 

No  wrong  its  brow  august  cannot  frown  down. 

Religion,  politics,  morals,  and  the  law 

Are  fagots  in  its  fingers  to  light  men 

With  kindling  beacons  to  exalted  heights, 

Or  point  the  lurid  depths  of  evil  out. 

Progress  and  Education  stand  upon 

Its  right  hand  and  its  left,  and  round  them  falls 

This  light  that  makes  them  known  to  all  mankind : 

It  beckons  bygone  ages  near,  until 

They  stand  so  close  who  reads  the  present  needs 

But  turn  the  page,  and  lo  !  the  past  is  there. 

It  folds  the  parted  corners  of  the  earth 

Together  as  a  scroll,  and  at  men's  hearths 

The  arctic  snows  and  tropic  blossoms  meet, 

And  Occident  and  Orient  clasp  hands. 

It  throws  its  light  on  Famine's  bleeding  lips, 
And  toward  her  Plenty's  generous  footstep  guides  ; 
Lorn  Ignorance,  grovelling  in  her  sloth  and  want, 
It  gently  leads  to  Wisdom's  noble  hand. 

Like  the  fair  tent  of  which  the  fable  tells, 
Whose  magic  folds  could  hide  a  mustard-seed, 


THE  PRINTING-PRESS.  227 

Or  so  expand  as  to  conceal  the  earth,  — 

80  does  the  Press,  from  simple  ABC  — 

The  mustard-seed  of  knowledge,  taught  beside 

The  first,  best  schoolroom,  the  fond  mother's  knee  — 

Expand  its  folds  until  it  covers  all 

Of  learning,  science,  literature,  and  art. 

With  a  magician's  power,  its  magic  light 

Men's  names  upon  immortal  canvas  writes, 

And  lifts  them  to  the  gaze  of  all  the  world. 

Long  since  Fame  came,  and  in  its  gleams  laid  down 

Her  brazen  trump.     There  humbled  Jove  beheld 

Such  thunderbolts  as  he  had  never  dared 

To  hurl  from  heights  of  old  Olympus  down. 

From  the  deep  waters  of  oblivion 

It  rescues  drowning  Genius.     Through  its  might 

We  seem  to  hear  again  on  Grecian  hills 

The  eloquent  accents  of  Demosthenes. 

The  Forum's  echoes  once  again  awake 

With  Caesar's  voice  and  Cicero's  ringing  tones ; 

While  Miriam's  C3'mbals  and  sweet  David's  psalms 

Reverberate  adown  the  centuries. 

Itself  an  orator  whose  tongue  the  gods 

Have  touched  with  living  fire,  its  luminous  words, 

Day  after  da}%  with  never  tiring  zeal, 

Flash  over  hemisphere  and  hemisphere. 

'T  is  the  inspired  preacher  who  goes  forth 

To  "  preach  the  gospel  unto  all  the  world,"  — 

The  golden  gospel  of  enlightenment. 


228  THE  PRINTING-PRESS. 

Men  look  back  from  a  world  of  printed  books, 
Upon  a  world  with  but  ONE  printed  book. 
Progress  triumphant  waves  o'er  Then  and  Now 
Her  radiant  banner ;  and  the  darkness  grows 
Alight,  as  night  grows  luminous  with  stars ; 
While  what  men  name  as  light  quivers  upon 
The  verge  of  greater  light  to  come,  until 
The  soul,  unveiled,  the  splendor  of  the  rays 
Scarce  dares  to  face. 

The  scribe  has  laid  away 
His  ancient  reed  and  his  papyrus  leaf 
As  relics,  whereunto  research  will  turn, 
And  reverential  learning  burn  its  lamp, 
In  dusty  chambers  of  antiquity. 
The  bricks  of  Babylon  to  the  scholar's  hand 
Yield  slowly  up  their  mystic  lettered  lore  ; 
And  while  one  to  the  patient  seeker  gives 
The  half-light  of  its  shadowed  histoiy, 
From  continent  to  continent  the  Press 
Has  flashed  its  rays  and  met  them  around  the  globe ! 

I  looked  across  a  monumented  land. 

On  ever}'  side  I  saw  defiant  stone 

And  many-metaled  bronze,  with  sculptured  names 

Of  heroed  greatness  in  their  guardianship. 

I  said,  "Where,  in  commemorative  clay, 

In  glittering  marble  or  in  shining  brass, 

On  this  broad  land  is  reared  the  towering  shaft 

Whose  carving  chisels  have  immortal  grown 

By  contact  with  the  name  of  GUTENBERG  ? 


THE  PRINTING-PRESS.  229 

Its  crest,"  I  said,  "  must  be  among  the  skies  ; 
Its  base  must  lie  upon  the  world's  wide  centre, 
And  all  the  nations  must  thereto  have  brought, 
In  grateful  tribute,  gold  and  precious  stones, 
To  build  it  up  with  radiance  to  outshine 
The  famed  Ephesian  dome,  or  palaces 
Which  had  for  their  foundations  priceless  gems." 

Last  night  an  answer  came  to  me  in  dreams ; 
It  said,  "  Such  monument  hath  Gutenberg 
As  never  rose  to  mortal  man  before  J 
Each  corner  of  its  dazzling  base  is  laid 
On  each  of  the  four  corners  of  the  earth. 
Its  summit  rises  where  the  finite  eye 
Of  man  is  blinded  by  Infinit}-. 
There  hath  the  veiled  Past  her  treasures  poured  ; 
Thereon  the  Future  sheds  her  brightest  smile  ; 
Tradition  has  bestowed  her  gathered  lore, 
And  meek  Religion  brought  her  shining  cross ; 
The  poet  there  has  placed  Ms  wreath  of  bays  ; 
The  sage,  the  jewels  of  his  wisdom  borne  ; 
Commerce,  rare  trophies  from  the  land  and  sea ; 
Science  and  Learning,  all  their  treasured  store  ; 
Music,  her  most ;  the  Beautiful,  its  best. 

"  There  all  the  sacred  Nine  have  tribute  poured ; 
And  Intellect,  Culture,  and  Refinement  stand, 
With  hearts  inlocked,  beside  the  ascending  shaft ; 
While  Genius  bows  a  reverential  front, 
As  Progress  there  his  sealud  orders  brings. 


230  THE  PRINTING-PRESS. 

The  royal  hands  of  married  Steel  and  Steam 
Bear  day  by  day  new  treasures  to  the  spot 
Where,  grander  than  earth's  grandest  monuments, 
Rises  this  dome  of  domes,  the  PRINTING-PRESS. 
And  as  of  old  the  Parsee's  quenchless  flame 
Burned  b}r  the  altar  and  the  sacred  hearth, 
So  burn  the  fervid  fires  of  Eloquence 
Beside  this  vast  and  universal  shrine 
At  which  the  nations  of  the  world  bow  down, 
And  where,  on  high,  Art's  loving  hand  hath  traced 
The  immortal  name,  —  JOHANNES  GUTENBERG." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIF 
Los  Ar-T- 


THE  LIBRARY 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS3089  .T46d 

y 


L  009  609  216  8 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L  BRARY  FACIL  TY 


II      II      I     ••      "  • 

AA    001  221  159    5 


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